


Rootbound

by wyntera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Florist and Landscaping AU, M/M, Slow Burn, but not too slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:08:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: Every plant is unique. They need love and care in the right environment to grow. Give them what they need, and they will flourish.McCree and Hanzo are a lot like plants. Big, stubborn, root bound plants.





	1. Amaryllis

**Author's Note:**

> This is a side project I'm playing with between chapters of Popcorn Redemption. Something a little lighter to cleanse the palate. Hope you guys like an overabundance of horticulture!

He hears the cat before he sees it. A pitiful meow that seems to come from every direction and nowhere at once, the sort of sound that he might dismiss as his own imagination if it did not repeat itself a few seconds later. The only reason he hears it at all is because he stops to rearrange the bags of groceries on his arm once he steps off the bus, and the engine is far down the street by the time the tiny sound gets to his ears.

Slowing down, Jesse looks around the sidewalk and across the street but does not see anything. The meow sounds again and he is able to hone in on a narrow walkway between two buildings. Paying no heed to the large puddles in his way, his boots make gritty crunches on the scattered gravel as he approaches the alley. The darkness at the other end is intimidating but he steps in anyway.

There, tucked against a drain pipe, he finds the cat. It is a dirty thing. From what Jesse can tell the cat has white fur mixed with dark somewhere under the layers of mud caked all over it. Even its face is smeared with filth. With all the rain they have had the past few days, he is hardly surprised. The mud makes the soaked little body blend in with the concrete and asphalt near seamlessly; Jesse would have missed it completely if the poor thing was not shivering so hard.

The cat’s brilliant blue eyes go wide and luminous when they spot him, and the ears pin back as it skitters back along the concrete wall a few yards in fear. “Hey there,” Jesse calls out gently, being careful to stay still now that the cat sees him. “Hey there, kitty. You’re alright, don’t run off now.”

After a few seconds, the cat meows at him, a little more forcefully. Jesse has to smile because now that he is closer and can hear the animal more clearly he has to admit that the meow is a bit ridiculous. Loud and flat, not cute and adorable like most cats he hears. Kind of like the animal is annoyed with Jesse’s presence, or bored, even though it is obviously in distress. “What are you doin’ down there, kitty?” He tries a tentative step forward but the cat runs back again so he stops, instead crouching down closer to its level. “It’s okay, you don’t have to run. What are you doin’ out here, little fella?” Another meow. “You lost?”

He tries to coax it over, holding out his curled hand and clicking his tongue at it, but he can tell the scared animal will not come any closer. It looks like it is half-frozen; he cannot just walk away now. Time to give it a little incentive. “You hungry? I bet you’re hungry,” he tries, digging through his grocery bags. He has a pack of hotdogs that will do in a pinch, so rips it open and breaks off a chunk. “C’mere, buddy, I won’t hurt you.”

Those ears perk up with interest, giant triangles on top of his wedged head. “Oh, now I got your attention,” Jesse chuckles. He tosses the little morsel toward the cat and it hesitates a few seconds before scurrying forward to gobble the hotdog up. “You want more?”

He gets another meow for that, so Jesse tosses another piece of hotdog half the distance closer. The animal’s hunger must be greater than its fear because it goes to the second bite immediately, crouching to chew the hotdog up as fast as it can. In his mind, Jesse is trying to figure out how he might be able to snag this cat around the scruff, if he can get out of this unscathed, and if he has any bandages back home if he even decides to try it. Somehow, he does not need to worry about any of that, because the cat comes right up to him for the third bite. “Well hi there,” Jesse says warmly, smiling as the cat decides the package in his hands is just fine where it is and it can help itself. Jesse runs the back of his fingers over the cat’s side and it only shies away slightly, so he ignores the filth in its fur and begins to pet it in earnest. “Aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?”

Then his fingers find a collar around its neck. Bingo. “How’s about you and me find your owner, huh? You goin’ to nibble my fingers off?” The cat is far too interested in the hotdog to even meow in answer, so Jesse takes a chance and scoops the cat up around the middle. It has a long slinky body, bigger and heavier than he expected. Could not have been lost for too long, then. And it seems happy enough to be carried as long as it can keep chomping on the hotdogs.

Resuming his walk with new friend in tow, Jesse makes his way home. There is no one else walking the streets this late at night--early in the morning, to be more accurate--and he does not live in the best part of town, so he would rather not dawdle too long down some dark alleyway. 

He lives in a small clapboard home that sits within sight of the textile mill he works at. Built sometime in the early half of last century for the mill workers, every house on the street is a near identical four rooms up on a cinderblock foundation. Most of the people that live down in this part of town work at the mill or one of the factories nearby. This street is just as abandoned as all the others he passed on his way home, but not for long. The shift change will come just before the sun rises, and then this place will be bustling with people.

“You’re lucky it was my day off, kitty. Any other day of the week and I’d still be on shift,” Jesse says as he turns from the sidewalk to the little walkway that leads up to his front steps. Juggling a cat, groceries, and his house keys is no easy feat but he manages and finally pushes through the door. Inside he flips on the light and both he and the cat wince at the sudden brightness. The cat attempts to squirm down out of his arms but Jesse holds him firm. “No, no sir, you are far too dirty to go runnin’ around. I love cats but I ain’t cleanin’ mud outta the carpet for you. Let’s get you in the bathroom.”

Jesse leaves his boots by the door and groceries on the kitchen counter before carrying the cat into the tiny washroom. Sending a silent apology to his future self, he sets the cat down on the floor and watches as the relatively clean white tiles become covered in muddy paw prints in approximately zero seconds. Shucking off his now-filthy coat, he sets it aside and pulls out his cellphone. “Okay, Mad Max, c’mere and let me look at that collar.” There are two little tags hanging from the navy blue canvas strap, one with rabies shot information and the other with the cat’s name on one side and a phone number on the other. He quickly dials the number into his phone then lets the cat go so it can explore. “You be good and I’ll be right back.”

The meowing starts up again as soon as Jesse slips out the door. Loud, insistent, annoyed meowing in that same flat tone. Jesse wonders if it is something specific to that breed or just this cat in particular that makes it sounds like a string trimmer being revved. And now the noise is amplified and echoed by the bathroom tiling. He hopes his neighbors cannot hear the racket through these thin walls.

While the phone rings Jesse begins to put away his groceries, only giving thought to the time of night when the phone is picked up on the fourth ring by a bleary, newly-woken male voice mumbling, “Hello?”

“Hey there,” Jesse says, glancing at the clock on the microwave. Four-thirty. Yikes. “I’m awful sorry to be botherin’ you so early, but I got a cat here named Soba? I think he might belong to--”

“You found Soba?!” The man on the other end of the line sounds wide awake now, uttering something in another language that Jesse does not understand but sure sounds relieved. “Is he alright? Is he injured?”

“Naw. I mean, not that I can tell; he’s pretty dang filthy, but he doesn’t seem hurt. Hungry little bugger.”

“He has been gone for days,” the man says. “I feared the worst.”

“Well, he sure looks like he had himself a little adventure.” Jesse winces as the meowing in the bathroom increases in volume now that Soba can hear his voice through the door. “He’s a talker, ain’t he?”

“Yes, he is. Where is he? I can come pick him up.” There is movement on the other end of the line, the man most likely getting out of bed and beginning to dress. Then he seems quite surprised to hear the address when Jesse rattles it off. “That is all the way across town.” The man curses. “I will be there in under an hour.”

“Take your time, it’s a’ight. He’s in good company.”

“Thank you. Thank you, I’ll be right there.”

The call ends and Jesse sighs, tucking the phone back in his pocket. So much for getting to bed early today. Third shift makes it hard enough for him to sleep as it is, what with the sunlight everywhere even with thick curtains, and cars going up and down the road, and children playing in the yard across the street, and the annoying phone calls from telemarketers and--anyway. Now he has a random stranger headed his way and his house looks a mess. Overtime this week meant letting the housework fall behind, so there is still unfolded laundry on the couch and dishes in the sink, a dozen other obvious chores he did not have time to finish.

All that falls behind the pressing issue of a cat making a mess of his bathroom. Best to do something about that before it gets worse.

Soba tries to make a break for it as soon as the door opens but Jesse is ready for him. “Not so fast, shorty,” Jesse says as he scoops Soba up around the middle and turns him around. “Little jailbird, huh? No wonder you got away from your owner.” He closes the door again and sighs when he sees that while he was gone Soba decided to dig around in the lemon button fern he has on the counter. There is a lovely pile of dirt on the floor. He is lucky Soba did not decide to knock over his schlumbergera cactus and break its pot. “And a digger, as well. Your owner must love you very much.”

He brings the cat over to the tub, setting him down inside the basin. There is no way he is holding the cat while he turns on the water; he values his blood staying in his veins, thank you very much. Expecting a freak-out, Jesse is shocked when Soba does not seem to be scared when the faucet comes on and water begins to pour out. Of course, he does not look too happy about it either. He begins to back up into Jesse’s hands and looks up at him with a positively pitiful expression. And the meowing starts anew.

“Don’t give me that look. You’re the one that ran off and got yourself all dirty,” Jesse states, assessing his meager selection of soaps on the rim of his shower and wondering if any of them would be animal safe. Not happy with what he finds, he figures that just getting the dirt off will be good enough for now. Soba’s owner will have to do a more thorough job. When the water is warm enough Jesse cups a hand and pours it onto Soba’s back, letting the cat get used to the temperature change. “I bet that feels a lot better, yeah? Isn’t that nice?”

Jesse gets most of the loose mud out of Soba’s fur and listens to a constant stream of upset meowing. And here he thought working in the mill was going to make him go deaf. But the cat is alive, and healthy, and going home where he belongs, so Jesse does not mind suffering for an hour or so. The cat is some sort of foreign breed, but he has never been great with distinguishing one type of cat from another to say what kind exactly. Slowly but surely beautiful blue-gray fur in a tabby pattern is revealed, the hair on his chest and face a light cream color with stripes and spots wrapping around his back and legs. The gorgeous coat and eyes combined with the sleek body, angular face, and huge ears makes Jesse think whatever breed he is, it must be expensive.

There are a few caked-in clumps of dirt Jesse can’t get free, not without shampoo, so he leaves them be. He would rather not hurt the little guy trying to pry it off. Once he is mostly clean Jesse holds Soba steady and does a quick rinse directly under the water stream. Then it is out of the tub and onto the bathmat. “You look like a rat, Soba,” Jesse says. The cat’s short fur is plastered to his lanky body and his tail looks like a whip. He meows again and shakes all over sending droplets of water flying in every direction, then stares up at Jesse with a look of betrayal fitting a Shakespearean play. Fetching a towel Jesse sets to work getting enough excess water out of his fur to let him out of the bathroom.

“Now, if I open the door, you can’t go hidin’ in some dark corner of the house, a’ight? I ain’t spendin’ hours diggin’ you out.” He wraps the cat up in the towel and picks him up in a little bundle. For a cat in a strange house, he certainly is comfortable being handled. Big blue eyes stare back at him from the cocoon. “How about we make a deal. I’ll find you another treat to tide you over, and you promise not to leave me any surprises on the floor. How’s that sound?”

Soba begins to purr in reply, and Jesse’s heart might just melt.

 

\---

 

Jesse sees headlights flash through the curtains over his kitchen sink before hearing the sound of a car engine turning off in his short driveway. “That must be him,” he says to Soba, who has finally stopped licking himself clean and is currently kneading a happy little nest out of the clothes in his laundry basket. The cat has no reply, just continues to purr and dig his little claws into Jesse’s flannel shirt.

Before Jesse can make it to the door he hears the screen door squeak open and a sharp staccato knock on the wooden door. On the other side is a man half a head shorter than Jesse, black hair thrown up in a messy bun and wearing a hoodie over dress slacks and sneakers. He really must have rolled out of bed and thrown on the first thing he found. His eyes meet Jesse’s as soon as the door opens and the sheer magnitude of hope in that face is staggering. “Hello. I am not sure if I have the right house, someone called--”

From the couch, Soba lets out an ear-shattering howl at the sound of his owner’s voice. Vaulting over the back he launches himself at the man’s legs and is immediately scooped up and embraced desperately. “Soba! Oh, Soba,” and then the owner trails off into a string of words Jesse cannot decipher, an Asian language of some kind. Jesse thinks it might be Japanese. The man peppers Soba with kisses all over his wedged head, the cat happily meowing its pleasure right back. The whole reunion is absurdly touching and makes Jesse feel all warm inside, like he is watching some sort of Made-For-TV movie.

Joyous brown eyes finally turn to take Jesse in. “Thank you,” the man says sincerely. “Thank you, so much, you do not know how worried I was.”

“Happy to help,” Jesse says, smiling right back. Then he holds out his hand. “Jesse McCree. Nice to meet you.”

The man seems to realize they never had a proper introduction and pulls his hand away from Soba’s fur to clasp Jesse’s gratefully. “Hanzo Shimada. I am sorry to bother you so early.”

Something about the name tickles Jesse’s memory, sounds familiar, but nothing comes to mind. “Don’t worry about it. Ain’t like you told him to skip town on you.” He steps forward and scratches behind Soba’s ears and the cat purrs like a motor. “He’s a sweet little guy. Found him down near the bus stop covered in mud and starvin’ somethin’ fierce. Hope you don’t mind he had most of a hot dog to tide him over.”

Hanzo laughs, looking from Jesse down to Soba. “Did you eat a hotdog? I bet you liked that, didn’t you? Yes you did!” He presses another kiss to Soba’s forehead then holds him back a little, looking him over. The cat’s fur is curling a bit from the lingering dampness. “I’m just glad he was not hurt. I thought…”

“Just cold and scared. I’d watch him for a few days, make sure he didn’t catch a bug. The weather’s been so bad out lately.”

“Good point,” Hanzo sighs, tucking the cat up against his chest again. “I cannot imagine how he got all the way over here. This is the first time he has ever gotten loose.”

“How’d he get out?”

Hanzo growls under his breath. “My idiot brother. He left the window open and Soba crawled out onto the ledge. I do not know how he did not break his legs jumping down, but he managed.”

“Glad you had the collar on him.” To the cat, Jesse says, “These streets aren’t for a little guy like you. Stay home with your Papa, you hear?” Soba just reaches out with his paw and hooks it around Jesse’s finger, trying to gnaw on it. Then, to Jesse’s horror, Hanzo starts digging in his hoodie pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Aw, no, no, that ain’t necessary--”

“I need to give you something for all this trouble,” Hanzo tries, already pulling money from inside.

“Well, I ain’t acceptin’ it,” Jesse says, taking a deliberate step back. “Was no trouble at all, you put that away. He’s back where he needs to be, and that’s plenty enough thanks.”

Hanzo does not look happy with that, but he can hardly force him. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as the sun."

Reluctantly, Hanzo returns his wallet to his hoodie and offers his hand again. “Well, thank you. And Soba would thank you, too, if he could.”

They shake again and Hanzo heads out after that, wanting to let Jesse get back to his normal routine. Soba starts meowing as soon as they step outside and his big eyes watch Jesse over Hanzo’s shoulder the whole way to the car--a sleek, expensive car, Jesse notes. It looks out of place in the driveway behind his old pickup. The meows go muffled once Hanzo shuts the door and Jesse watches until the car, the cat, and the rather attractive man have disappeared around the corner before retreating back inside.

Jesse has never had a pet that was his alone. He has befriended stray dogs and cats at different apartments and at his work, but never one that he owned and cared for. He can only imagine how terrifying losing a pet like that must be. For their sake, he hopes things can finally get back to normal.

 

\---

 

At first Jesse thinks he is dreaming. He had just been wondering before he went to bed how Hanzo and his cat were doing. It would make sense to dream of that funny meow Soba had. But the meows in his ears get louder and constant and repetitive and these are way too realistic to not be right outside--

Jesse’s eyes pop open and, yep, he can hear a cat meowing outside. A rather loud, flat, annoyed meow. A familiar meow. “There ain’t no way,” he says to his ceiling before sitting up. It sounds like it is coming from the front of the house.

“No, no, there ain’t no way,” he repeats, tugging on a pair of pants and flicking on the lamp. The racket grows louder the closer he gets to the door, and when he begins to unlock it the stress in that little voice jumps tenfold. He opens the door, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.

Soba has both feet up on the screen door, claws dug into the netting, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“You have got to be shittin’ me,” Jesse states.

The cat just meows more, tugging at his screen like his claws might be stuck in the fabric. Cursing under his breath at the thought of having to replace it if Soba decides to panic and rip it open, Jesse manages to get the door open and comes around to unhook him. “What the hell are you doin’ here, you damn fool cat?”

“Hey Mister McCree!” Jesse looks over his shoulder to see the ten year old that lives down the street standing on the sidewalk in front of his house, basketball in hand. “Is that your cat?”

What was that kid’s name. Seth? Shaun? “Uh, yeah,” he says distractedly, trying to soothe Soba while getting one of the stubborn claws to retract. “I mean, no, he’s a friend of mine’s.”

“Sure is loud. Can I pet it?”

“Not today, uh,” Simon? Steven? Damn it, what is his name? “Buddy. He’s upset, wouldn’t want you gettin’ bit. Maybe next time.”

“Aww, come on, Mister McCree!”

“No, don’t need your mama gettin’ on me if you got hurt.” Finally Soba’s claw comes loose and Jesse lifts him up into his arms. Looking back at the kid, Jesse says, “Speakin’ of your mama, you ought to get on home. It’s gettin’ late.”

The kid whines that it is just barely after dark and Jesse expects to deal with more, but one of his friends rides by on his bike. A baseball card is clipped to the frame so it flaps in the spokes. “C’mon, Shane!”

Jesse watches as they both head back down toward Shane’s house and Jesse mumbles, “Knew it started with an S.” Turning to go inside, he focuses his attention back on Soba. “And just what the hell do you think you’re doin’ back here, huh? How’d you even find my house?”

Once again, Soba does not look to be hurt in any way. In fact, other than the dust along his belly and the lower half of his legs, he looks clean and well-groomed. Hopefully that means he has only been missing a day or two. The cat begins to sniff him all over and eagerly starts to purr.

“Can’t believe you got all the way here again,” Jesse says, setting the cat down and fetching a shallow bowl from his cupboards. He fills it with fresh water and sets it on the kitchen floor, watching as Soba eagerly laps up the cool liquid. “Don’t know if your owner’s goin’ to be as sweet on you this time around, you know.”

Soba meows in response, unrepentant, so Jesse sighs and retrieves his phone from the charger. The cat only woke him up an hour early. Not too terrible. At least Soba keeps showing up on his days off.

This time Hanzo answers in a much more timely manner and sounds already awake. And worried. “Hello?”

“Hi again. It’s Jesse McCree,” he says, opening his dresser to find a clean shirt while he talks. “We talked last week, when you came to pick up Soba.”

Hanzo sounds surprised to hear from him, as expected. “Oh! Of course, Mr. McCree, hello, I--wait. Wait, do not tell me.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Are you serious?” Hanzo blurts, shocked.

Jesse laughs. “I just found him outside my door.”

That gets Jesse a groan in response, a mix of relieved and exasperated. “I am so sorry! I do not know what has gotten into him! When my assistant came by the house yesterday morning he ran right under our feet and out the door. We have been looking for him all day.”

“I’m bettin’ it took him all that time to get over here,” Jesse says. He still is not sure where Hanzo lives, but from the way he talks about it he must live uptown. “Not sure how he found his way back, but I got him. Do you need me to bring him by?”

“No, I am already in the car, I can come right there,” Hanzo replies. “I am not keeping you from anything, am I?”

Jesse picks out one of his thicker flannel button downs with a nicer plaid pattern rather than one of his normal t-shirts. No reason to look like a slob this time. “Nah, it’s my day off so there ain’t no rush. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there shortly.”

After the call ends, Jesse sighs and stretches, feeling the bones in his spine pop satisfyingly. He looks over at Soba who followed him back to the bedroom. The cat is standing on his hind legs trying to sniff at the half-eaten chocolate bar Jesse left on his bedside table when he came home from work this morning. He seems to sense when he is being watched and looks over at Jesse, meowing curiously. “Chocolate ain’t for you, but I reckon you’re right,” Jesse says, coming over and scooping up the candy out of reach. “Best get breakfast started if we’re goin’ to have company.”

When Hanzo arrives Jesse is pushing sausage patties around a pan. He just pulled the biscuits out of the oven and transferred them to a covered basket a few minutes ago, and the last of his eggs are sitting in their carton next to the stove. Soba keeps weaving back and forth between his legs and meowing for nibbles.

Hanzo makes eye contact with him through the kitchen window and Jesse waves him in. The other man tentatively opens the front door, probably unaccustomed to just walking into someone’s house, and Soba happily trots over to rub against Hanzo’s hands when he leans down to stroke his back. “There you are,” Hanzo breathes, doing a cursory check for injuries even though he is sure there are none. “You are in so much trouble, you have no idea.” Picking Soba up Hanzo walks further inside. “Hello again.”

“Hey there,” Jesse says, smiling over at the other man. “We really gotta stop meetin’ like this.”

“I am sorry, again, this is so abnormal for him.”

“It’s fine, really, you don’t have to keep apologizing. Pull up a chair, breakfast will be ready in a quick minute. But, if you could close the door for me first, I’d appreciate it. I’d rather not let the heat out.”

Hanzo blinks at him owlishly, caught off-guard and making no move to do either. “I should probably just get out of your hair. We’ve taken up so much of your time--”

“If you got someplace you have to be, that’s fine, but if not you may as well stay. You drove all this way, after all.” When Hanzo does not move, Jesse glances over his shoulder again. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled,” Hanzo finally replies. He steps back and closes the door as asked, then ventures further into the kitchen to the table already set for two. Soba, who was happy to be picked up initially, has decided that being in Hanzo’s arms is rather boring by comparison to what he was doing before and starts to squirm. The cat gets put on the ground as Hanzo sits. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. You like cheese in your eggs? All I got’s cheddar.”

“Cheddar is fine.”

Jesse starts cracking eggs into the empty pan on the other burner and Soba begins to wander back and forth between them, rubbing his face against Jesse’s calves and Hanzo’s hands. “I got the sausage almost done, and I think I got grape and blackberry jelly for the biscuits. Whichever you want is fine. The blackberry, that one is real good, though. A friend of mine, Ana, she makes it every summer. Enough for everyone to store a couple jars. Still tastes like July.”

Realizing this is going to be a proper meal, Hanzo slips out of his wool coat. He is wearing a dress shirt and slacks, with proper dress shoes this time, and a tie that had been pulled loose before he got there. “It sounds delicious.” Hanzo reaches down to scratch Soba behind the ears. “Do you often have breakfast for dinner?”

Chuckling, Jesse replies, “This is my breakfast. I just woke up.”

“Oh. My apologies.”

“It’s alright, it’s my day off anyway. Third shift makes you a bit of a night owl all the time.” He glances over at Hanzo. “What do you do?”

Hanzo opens his mouth but looks like he is not sure what is going to come out until it does. “Oh, uh, just office work. You know, nothing too exciting,” he says, laughing a little like he has an inside joke. Instead of elaborating, Hanzo casts his eyes about the room. “And you? I don’t know many people that work third shift.”

Jesse wonders if Hanzo knows  _ anyone  _ that does not work nine-to-five in an office, but does not comment. “I work at the textile mill,” he says hitching his head in the general direction of the smokestacks out the window. “Been in the dye room about seven years now.”

“In the die room...oh! Dye! Like color!” Hanzo blurts, then flushes. He must realize how lost he sounds. “Sorry, I do not know much about...any of that.”

“You look like a fish out of water,” Jesse comments, chuckling. “That’s alright, I ain’t never worked in an office, myself. I’d probably be like a bull in a china shop.”

An amused smile tilts Hanzo’s mouth. “Do all your sayings involve animals or just these?”

“Oh, my sayin’s have depths,” Jesse grins. He scrapes the sausage onto a plate and gets to work on the eggs, sprinkling in cheese as he goes. While he is at it he pinches off a tiny chunk from one of the patties and holds it down for Soba to lick from his fingers.

“He is not supposed to eat people food,” Hanzo says, emphasis on the ‘supposed’ and raising an eyebrow at the two. The tips of Jesse’s fingers tickle as Soba cleans them.

“Sorry. I think that’s why he likes me,” Jesse replies, drawing his hand back when Soba is done. The cat licks his chops and stares up at him expectantly. “Nope, bud, that’s all the milk you’re gettin’ from this cow.”

Behind him, Jesse is pretty sure he hears Hanzo snort into his hand. Good. The man looks far too stiff and uncomfortable, and Jesse prefers his guests to be relaxed at his dining table. Soba tries to meow at him and Hanzo shushes, drawing the cat out from under Jesse’s feet so he can move freely. “He is enamored with you,” Hanzo says, lifting Soba up onto his lap.

“Maybe it was the hot dog?”

“Or because you came to his aid when he was scared,” Hanzo counters, using his fingers to scratch all around the cat’s neck and shoulders. “You are his hero.”

“Oh, I don’t know about all that,” Jesse dismisses, adding a little more cheese. May as well go all out.

“I do not know how he found your house again.”

“You’re goin’ to have to keep a leash on him at this rate.”

Hanzo grunts in agreement, frowning at the cat. “He has never been one to try and get out before. He and his brother usually shy away from the door completely. Now all of a sudden he keeps trying to get loose.”

“Animals do that,” Jesse says. “What breed is he? I don’t recognize it.”

“Oriental. There were three in his litter. My brother Genji took the female and when I went to pick out mine I just could not choose one over the other. It seemed cruel to leave one behind.” Hanzo scratches under Soba’s chin and the cat purrs up at him lovingly.

A few more stirs has Jesse satisfied with how the food looks, so he dumps it all onto a plate and turns off the burner. Bringing it over to the table, he smirks. “I don’t even have to worry about havin’ a pet, what with him comin’ to visit so often.”

“Well, it will not happen again,” Hanzo states, squeezing his fingers on Soba’s forehead and making his ears wiggle before dropping him back to the floor. Jesse offers him coffee but Hanzo declines, holding his glass for the orange juice Jesse pours him. Though he does look forlornly at the steaming mug that Jesse nurses. “I try to avoid coffee when it gets late. It used to be something I drank at all hours, but I have been told I need to work on getting regular sleep.”

“Work-a-holic?” Still in work attire this late at night, he would assume Hanzo was still at the office when he called.

Hanzo shrugs. “Not exactly. I tend to get...sucked into hobbies,” he admits.

“Oh yeah? What kind? If you don’t mind me askin’.”

The other man hesitates a moment, like he is deciding if it is worth sharing this information with Jesse. “I grow flowers,” he finally states.

“Like in a garden?” Jesse asks.

“No. They are mostly indoor plants that require special care, but I like to…” and he falters, cheeks flushing slightly. “I do flower arrangements. So mostly--”

“Lilies, violets, roses, that sort of thing? No, wait, orchids, you look like an orchid-man.”

Hanzo blinks at him, looking at Jesse like he is some sort of cryptid. “All of the above. You know about flowers?”

“A bit. In the summer I run a little side business doin’ landscaping for some of the nicer neighborhoods. You know, tend the lawn, spray for weeds, that sort of thing. But some people ask for help pickin’ out what would look nice, or what would work to keep the deer out of the yard, or attract butterflies. Gets me out of the mill and into the sun, gives me a little money to save for a rainy day.” Jesse scoops up a forkful of egg. “What are you working on now?” he asks, taking a bite.

There is a hesitance to Hanzo but he replies, “Christmas lilies. I know poinsettias are the preferred flower this time of year, but I thought I would try something different.” There he pauses, as if to test how his companion might react to that.

Jesse just nods. “That’s amaryllis, right? What colors? I’ve always been partial to red myself, but white is traditional for the holiday, or am I wrong on that one?”

“White, but I think I have a few red close to bloom.” A real smile spreads across Hanzo’s face, one he does not bother to hide behind a hand or a nervous glance away.

With that, Hanzo launches into a detailed account of his attempts at forcing amaryllis blooms out of season. His plants are on a strict watering cycle of every three days, the pots placed in a pan to allow the water to suck up from the bottom rather than poured in from the top. Earlier this week he spent a whole evening carefully inserting support sticks into each pot so that the top-heavy flower bulbs do not break their stems. It only took him a few hours. This has Jesse asking just how many plants he has, and then where he has the space for so many. Turns out that Hanzo does not just get sucked into his hobbies; he gets consumed by them. He admits that last summer he started parking his car out in the driveway so he could fit more plants in his garage, and now he keeps it as balmy as a greenhouse in there.

And so the conversation flows from Hanzo’s garage-greenhouse to Jesse’s summer garden, the succulents he grows in the windows and the fruits and vegetables out in the back yard, Hanzo’s failed attempt at calamondin oranges and the time Jesse almost got in a fistfight with a woman over a Japanese maple. The food is good and the company better. Hanzo ends up drinking that cup of coffee after all, and another when Jesse helpfully refills it. He also raves about how delicious the blackberry jelly is, Jesse smugly admitting he grew the berries himself but Ana did all the canning, and how he would be happy to get a jar for Hanzo to take home. All the while, Soba goes from legs to laps to curling up on the back of the couch, lightly dozing and watching the two talk half the night away.

Hanzo is just explaining how he wants to try his hand at winter jasmine but he is worried about the size, when the sound of a nearby train going by startles him from his thoughts. “What time is it?”

Glancing at the clock, Jesse chuckles. “Just after midnight.”

“Kuso,” Hanzo mutters. “I have been here far too long. I apologize.”

“Nah, I enjoyed the company,” Jesse says. He is doing a horrible job of getting anything done on his off-days, but these were special circumstances. Nothing worth worrying about. And Hanzo is such good company. “But I’m guessin’ it’s well past your bedtime.”

Hanzo glances at the time on his phone for confirmation and winces. “I am supposed to be in the office by eight.” His eyes turn to the remains of their meal before him. “Let me help you clean up.”

“There’s no need for that. You have to get all the way across town before you hit the hay; there ain’t no point in feelin’ even worse in the morning.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go on, I can handle a few dishes. Besides, you got to get your little outlaw back home.” They look over to find Soba conked out on the sofa, his striped front legs stretched out in front of him like a sphynx.

“You are right,” Hanzo says, getting to his feet and going to retrieve his cat. Soba makes a little annoyed chirp but does not struggle, hanging limp and sleepy as Hanzo gathers him up tightly in his embrace. Jesse fetches Hanzo’s coat and does the gentlemanly thing by helping him shrug into it, not the easiest of feats with a cat in his arms. At the door Hanzo turns back to Jesse, lingering. “You have been so kind for all the trouble I have put you through.”

“Wasn’t no trouble at all,” Jesse insists. “Soba’s a good little cat. And it was nice talkin’ plants with someone.”

“It was. Not many people are interested if I bring it up. Most of my coworkers do not know about it at all. And...well, you know how it is around here. Other men do not know what to make of a man who arranges flowers...” Hanzo trails off, not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding hurt or offended. But just like he has all evening, Jesse seems to hear what he does not say.

“People can get some real stupid ideas about what hobbies are appropriate for what people,” he says diplomatically. “If they think only women can appreciate something beautiful, then I feel sorry for ‘em.”

Inexplicably, Hanzo turns flustered and focuses his attention on making sure he has Soba secured for the walk to the car. “Thank you again. I hope this is the last time I have to chase Soba down to this side of town. He is shaving years off my life like this.” He glances up at Jesse. “But perhaps we could get together sometime and discuss our gardens again? Planned this time, without Soba’s help?”

“I’d like that,” Jesse replies, a slow grin spreading on his face. “We could get drinks? If you drink, that is.”

Hanzo nods. “You have my number.”

“And you have mine.” He holds the door open for Hanzo so the other man can carry Soba out into the cold winter night. “Besides, you gotta tell me how those amaryllis turn out.”

“You will be the first to know,” Hanzo assures, smiling up from the bottom of the three stairs. “Goodnight, McCree.”

“Night. Drive safe.”

For the second time in as many weeks, Jesse watches as Hanzo loads Soba into his car and backs out of the drive. This time, though, Hanzo raises his hand in farewell. Jesse waves back, ducking back inside as the chill begins to seep into his skin. He watches from the kitchen window until the brake lights fade from sight. But this time he will not have to wonder if Hanzo and Soba’s life gets back to normal. He plans on finding out for himself.

 

\---

 

The first time Hanzo meets Jesse for drinks, three weeks later and just before the New Year, Hanzo arrives carrying a weathered white pot with a gold bow tied to the rim. From within grows a single amaryllis plant, two flowers in perfect bloom growing from the top. When Jesse leans in to inhale the scent from the bright red blossoms, Hanzo smiles.


	2. Sempervivum

The thing about Hanzo’s brother is that he never just rings the doorbell once. No, he believes the best way to announce his presence is by spamming the doorbell as many times as possible between his arrival and the moment Hanzo gets to the door to answer it. It is something he only does for Hanzo; not their parents, not his friends, just Hanzo. Not only does this let Hanzo know that his brother is at the door, but it also lets Soba and Udon know so that they can begin their excited and agitated caterwauling until someone opens the door to their favorite uncle. It also serves to irritate Hanzo to no end, which is just seen as an added bonus.

It is in moments like these that Hanzo considers disconnecting the bell entirely, but then he worries what his brother would do instead. Not worth the risk, really.

Striding to the door in tandem to the rhythm of the doorbell, Hanzo grumbles and fantasizes about where he might one day shove that stupid bell. He scoops up Soba--still not trusting his cat after his two prior escapes--and yanks the door open.

Genji Shimada is already smirking when he spots Hanzo. Then he laughs, bemused. “Did I get you out of the shower?”

“No, I just like walking around soaking wet for no reason,” Hanzo snarls. His silk robe clings uncomfortably to still-wet skin and his hair is dripping over his shoulders and down his back. A most uncomfortable sensation. Shoving Soba into Genji’s arms, he turns on his heels to stalk back the way he came.

The door shuts behind him and Genji follows, cooing lovingly to the cat he now holds. “Hello, Soba-baby! How are you and your brother today? Your sissy misses you both so much, yes she does. We will have to set up a playdate soon! Egg got new toys she wants to share with you.” His dress shoes clack on the wood floors all the way through the house and up the stairs to Hanzo’s bedroom where he flops down on Hanzo’s bed while his brother disappears back into the bathroom to finish drying off. “Is your mean old Daddy being a sour puss today? Is he?”

“I was actually having a very nice day for once,” Hanzo says, voice echoing around his spacious bathroom. He drops the robe and hastily dries before slipping into a pair of boxers. “Then you came along.”

“Harsh. You wound me, brother.”

Hanzo grabs a brush from the drawer and starts to comb out his hair. “If only,” he mutters. Then, louder, “I thought you had a late meeting today.”

“Eh, I begged off,” Genji says, the reply making Hanzo grip his brush even harder and grit his teeth. Of course he missed the meeting. “That bald dude from accounting was going to be there.”

“Houtkooper?”

“Yeah, that one. He is so boring, Hanzo. I mean, accounting is already pretty boring but I cannot handle that man for more than twenty minutes.”

“ _ That bald dude _ is the head of the department. You have to meet with him.”

Genji lets out an undignified whine. “Can you just do it for me?”

“No,” Hanzo states, glaring at his reflection as he works his hair until it hangs straight. It is already starting to dry, and by the time he is dressed it should be good enough to tie up. “If you did not postpone seeing him so often, the meetings would be shorter. They have to tell you everything at once. If you would just do your job--”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Genji dismisses. “Thanks, Father.”

Coming out of the bathroom Hanzo shoots Genji a betrayed look on the way to his walk-in closet. “Low blow, Genji.”

“Sorry.” And Genji actually sounds like he half-means it, too, so Hanzo lets it drop. After all, if he does not want to spent the whole evening arguing with Genji he has to pick his battles. Soba hops off of Genji’s lap to chase after his master, always excited to venture into the closet to try and find something to climb on or a dark hidey-hole to explore. “Anyway, I heard you sealed that deal with Volskaya Industries. They made a press release about it this afternoon. Good job on that.”

“It did not take much,” Hanzo says, selecting a pair of dark jeans and slipping them on. “They will benefit from the partnership as much as we will.”

“Still, I heard that company can be a bear to wrestle with,” Genji says. His voice turns playful. “Anyway, I thought to myself, Genji? What would Hanzo do on the evening of such a hard-fought win? Go out and celebrate? No, of course not. He would sit at home and play with his flowers. Which is just not acceptable. So get dressed, we’re going out. I got us a reservation for dinner and then I can get us a VIP room uptown somewhere. I’m feeling vodka would be fitting, considering, but we can always--”

“I cannot tonight.”

“Yes, you can! I will not allow you to be a hermit and--”

“No, I mean, I cannot tonight because I have plans.”

There is a moment of complete silence before Genji is suddenly in the threshold of his closet, hands braced on either side of the doorframe, face one of open shock. Hanzo spares him an unimpressed look before going back to buttoning his jeans. “You. Have plans. You?”

“Yes.”

Genji opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. “Doing what?”

Bracing himself for trouble, Hanzo answers. “I’m meeting a friend for drinks.”

“What friend? Do you even have friends?” He ducks as Hanzo grabs a wooden hanger from the rack and flings it at him. It clatters to the floor and Soba rushes over to sniff at it. “It was a joke, man, calm down! But seriously, with who? I did not think you hung out with anyone from work.”

“No one from work,” Hanzo says, sorting through his semi-casual shirts. He does not want to look too fancy, but he would like to look nice. Maybe something in blue. “You do not know him.”

“So who?” Genji leans a shoulder against the doorframe and idly messes with one of the paisley ties on Hanzo’s tie rack. He blinks at Hanzo, another thought occurring to him. “Wait, is this a friend or a  _ friend _ ?”

Hanzo picks out the navy fitted button down and pulls it on. “It is not like that. We are just normal, platonic friends.”

He gets a suspicious look at that, and Genji keeps an arm braced across the doorway when he tries to walk out. “Who is it?”

“Just a guy I met a few months ago.”

“Just a guy.”

Glaring, Hanzo ducks under Genji’s arm and moves toward his dresser to find socks. “Yes, just a guy.” When he turns back with a pair of black dress socks Genji is there, arms crossed and looking expectant. Hanzo huffs out a sigh. “What? I am allowed to have friends, am I not?”

“Yes, but you do not make friends,” Genji says, making it sound like a statement of fact. “You make business associates and you talk to me and your cats, you do not go out and socialize. I cannot imagine you just making a random friend.”

“I am just more selective about who I spend my time with, unlike some people.” It is obvious that Genji has no intention of letting this go, if the continued eye contact is anything to go by. Sighing, Hanzo finally relents. “The man that found Soba.”

It takes Genji a moment to realize what Hanzo is talking about. When he does, he breaks out into a smile. “Oh! You did not tell me you were still in touch with him! Why did you not just say so? What, does he have cats too or something?”

“No, he has no pets of his own,” Hanzo says, moving to the side so he can bend over and lift a leg to put on a sock.

“And?” Genji reaches out and gives Hanzo a soft push, making him topple sideways onto the bed. Soba hops up next to him, attempting to crawl up onto Hanzo’s chest but he keeps the cat away with a soft touch.

“No, no, Soba, not on the clean shirt,” he says gently, scratching behind Soba’s ears. He frowns at Genji. “You are incredibly nosy, you know that?”

Udon is suddenly on the bed next to them, the slightly sleeker cat as nimble and silent as always. He circles around Genji before settling himself down in a lazy sprawl against his thigh. “Hey there, Oodles-of-Noodles,” Genji says, petting the cat. “And of course I am nosy, it is my job to know your business. I am guessing this is the reason you have blown me off the past three Wednesday nights, when you said you were just ‘too tired’ to go out, you lying liar.”

Hanzo winces, looking away. “It is the only night he is free.”

“Wait, you really are meeting him every week?” Genji sounds even more shocked. “You are meeting a stranger--”

“He is not a stranger anymore--”

“--every week, for drinks, at who-knows-where bar, I assume. How do I know he is not some sort of serial killer that is going to lure you to his home and bury you in the basement?”

“Well, for one, his home does not have a basement,” Hanzo says, smirking over at him. The annoyed look he gets in response to that makes him realize Genji is serious. He feels oddly touched that Genji even cares so he gives in a little. “His name is Jesse. When I went to pick up Soba we got to talking and lost track of time. I guess we hit it off.” A genuine smile sneaks out as he shrugs. “He is rather funny, and tells the most interesting stories. And he is a marksman as well! We are trying to find a time to go to the range together. But mostly we just talk about our gardens.”

“Another plant fanatic. Only you.” Genji narrows his eyes. “You  _ like  _ him,” he accuses.

The smile falls off his face in an instant. “Do not start,” Hanzo warns, pulling on his other sock and getting up to pick out a hair ribbon.

“All the guys I try to hook you up with, and you go out and find another flower nerd. Typical. Is he at least hot?”

“I am not talking about this. He is just a friend. I do not even--” He stops a moment, his fingers tracing the delicate gold pattern on the ribbon he picked for his hair. “I am fairly sure he is straight.”

He can see Genji make a sour face in the mirror. “How ordinary,” he complains. Hanzo has to hold in a laugh at that. Genji has never been one to limit himself to a certain type of sexual partner, or even the type to limit himself to one partner at a time. The only issue he and Hanzo face is keeping their love lives under tight wraps. Their father still expects the two of them to produce fine young sons of their own someday, someone to carry on the family name and inherit their business when they retire. And Genji might even give their father what he wants, one day. 

But their father has high hopes for Hanzo, being the eldest. Boy will he be disappointed.

Casting those thoughts aside for now, Hanzo pulls his hair up into a high ponytail with the ribbon and runs his fingers through the hair that hangs loose in the front. He briefly considers eyeliner, but Genji already thinks far too much of this without adding fuel to the fire. Satisfied with his appearance, Hanzo turns to address Genji directly. “Yes. So we are just friends and that is all we will be.”

“You said you were not sure, though,” Genji points out. He leans over and starts to gather Udon up in his arms, turning him over like holding a baby. It is instantly clear Udon is not pleased with this, his ears going flat and his back legs sticking out stiff and straight.

“I am pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure, fairly sure, you do not know.” He starts to rock Udon gently, which does nothing to improve his mood. The cat keeps trying to avoid eye contact and leans back further and further from Genji’s face. “He could just be hiding it really well. Or in the closet. Maybe you hold the key.” Genji follows this up by grinning broadly and waggling his eyebrows. “And by key I mean your dick.”

“Udon does not like that,” Hanzo says, stating the obvious and desperately hoping to change the subject. He can feel his face getting hot already.

“Sure he does.” Genji raises Udon up higher against his chest so he can press his cheek to the top of Udon’s head. Then he playfully coos, “Don’t be mad, bro. Don’t be mad.” Udon gives a rather annoyed warning sound, a low warble deep in his throat, and his tail flicks hard and agitated against Genji’s bicep.

Hanzo watches in fascination as Genji goes stock still, eyes widening. “You should put him down now.”

“No, no, no! Don’t be mad, don’t be mad--OW!” He jerks as he drops Udon to the bed, sticking his finger in his mouth and sucking to ease the sudden sting of pain from Udon’s claws. The cat leaps off the bed and runs to the hall where he turns back and crouches to watch Genji with narrow eyes. After deeming Genji uninteresting again, he lifts a paw and begins to clean, clearly done with the brothers for today.

Genji begins cursing a blue streak and retreats to the bathroom to find a bandage, complaining loudly about how his cat would never do such a thing. As soon as he is busy with the medicine cabinet, Hanzo smiles and pulls a little plastic bag from his bedside table that has both cats at his feet in seconds. “Someone just earned himself a treat,” he whispers with a grin, feeding them each a morsel. He pets Udon behind the ears as he chews. “Good kitty.”

 

\---

 

By the time Hanzo manages to kick Genji out he is running late. While he feeds the cats he shoots off a text to McCree letting him know, then locks up and gets on the road.

The meet-ups with McCree started just a few weeks after Hanzo picked up Soba for the second time. Hanzo, feeling a bit guilty about being such an imposition on McCree’s life, thought that maybe getting together near the holiday would be a good way of easing his own conscious. Plus, McCree was a nice conversationalist, at least for the few hours they spent together eating breakfast-for-dinner. Perhaps it would be a few hours reprieve from his busy schedule. He half anticipated the other man to be too busy to meet that first time; after all, it was the end of the year and people often have plans. But McCree had been happy to agree, and they had met at an upscale bar near downtown.

Shockingly enough, Hanzo had fun that night. And again two weeks later when they met at a bar of McCree’s choosing, a place a little too loud for Hanzo’s tastes. He later realized the first location was about as far from McCree’s typical nightspot as could be, which explained why he had been rather stiff for the first hour. The third time out they found a little hole-in-the-wall bar and grill that hovers somewhere between Hanzo and McCree’s preferences, quiet and cozy and out of the way of anyone that might know either of them. It is there that they have gone nearly every Wednesday since, having to meet in the middle of the week thanks to McCree’s schedule. He had apologized profusely for it at first, but it is hardly a hardship for Hanzo and now it is just an expected part of his week.

McCree’s truck is already in the lot and Hanzo parks next to it before heading inside. He spots the the familiar cowboy hat and the man beneath it leaning against the bar munching on a handful of pretzels, beer bottle hanging lazily from his fingers and watching the other patrons watch a basketball game on the flatscreens overhead. Basketball is certainly not Hanzo’s sport of choice and he knows McCree could not care less about it, but McCree is an avid people-watcher. He often makes up fantastical stories about the other patrons, spinning tales that make Hanzo both laugh and reconsider the way he presents himself to the world.

There is some sort of excitement on the screen, a technical foul of some sort, that has the basketball fans suddenly shouting at the television. It causes McCree to startle horribly. Hanzo begins to tease him for it when he spots the bottle by McCree’s hand and he wrinkles his nose. “What have I told you about drinking that garbage?”

McCree perks up and turns, pushing up his hat to reveal the wide grin on his face. “Not everyone has high-end tastes like you, fancy-pants,” he says, standing from his stool. He grabs his beer bottle with his prosthetic and the other hand carefully lifts a small pot from the bartop. The pot is a rather cute aqua blue ceramic in the shape of a stylized owl, no bigger than McCree’s fist. Growing just off the surface is fat little bulbous plant.

“What do you have there?” Hanzo asks before the pot is unceremoniously plopped into his waiting hands.

“One of my hens had a chick,” McCree replies. He motions for Hanzo to follow and they head back to their usual table away from the bar.

“Your what had a what?”

McCree laughs at his confusion and slides into the booth, Hanzo taking the seat opposite. “That’s what they’re called, hen and chicks. Sempervivum. The mama plant forms little offshoots that look like baby chicks next to it. There’s probably about three hundred varieties or so. This one’s called Legolas, thought it suited you.”

The little succulent is a soft dusky violet, each petal embracing the next in a beautiful rosette no bigger than Hanzo’s thumb. It looks soft to the touch but when Hanzo runs a finger over the edges they prove firm and the points are sharp. Like little arrowheads. “Thank you,” Hanzo says, rotating the pot this way and that to look at the plant from different sides.

“Hope you don’t mind the pot, it’s the only one I had on hand.”

“It is cute,” Hanzo insists, grinning and putting it aside with care. “I know just where to set it, too.”

“Couple years from now you’ll have a whole slew of ‘em,” McCree says, plucking the menu from the table and giving it a once-over. “How do you feel about cheese fries?

Hanzo feels his stomach clench with hunger at the thought, a reminder that he only had a salad for lunch. “Sounds delicious.” The waitress comes over and takes the order for that and Hanzo’s drink, and he waits for her to leave before addressing McCree again. “I am sorry I was running so late today. My brother came by to see me.”

“Ah, I had wondered what was holdin’ you up,” McCree says knowingly. “Everythin’ alright?”

“Yes, he’s fine, he was just assuming he and I were going out tonight.”

A concerned look passes over McCree’s features. “Aw, now, if you needed to hang out with your family tonight I wouldn’t’ve minded. No need to worry about me.”

“I do not need to hang out with him,” Hanzo dismisses. “He just did not know I already had plans. Which he would know if he ever bothered to ask before making them for me. Do not concern yourself about him; he has stood me up and canceled on me enough times over the years. He will get over it.”

“If you’re sure.” McCree raises his beer to his lips. “Guessin’ he wanted to take you out to celebrate?”

“Yes. You would think he would be used to contract negotiations by now, but Genji will use any excuse to go out and party. It was bad enough when we were younger, but now he wants to--wait.” Hanzo stops, suddenly, eyes flying to McCree’s face as he realizes what he said. “What do you mean, celebrate?”

McCree raises an eyebrow. “That multi-million dollar deal y’all just made with Volskaya Industries,” he drawls, taking another long drink from the bottle.

There is a still moment where Hanzo stares at McCree in shock before he closes his eyes on a wince. “How long have you known?”

“Couple weeks? Maybe a month. Shimada ain’t exactly a common name around here, and you got radio ads on every other station. ‘Roar like dragons’ is pretty catchy. You guys have engines in half the race cars in NASCAR and Formula One and every other luxury car out there, and this is racin’ country. Hard to miss it when you got a big logo hangin’ from that sign near the Speedway. Besides, it ain’t that hard to Google.” McCree chuckles as Hanzo covers his eyes with one hand, the waitress coming over with his drink. When she leaves Hanzo takes a healthy gulp from the glass. “Hanzo Shimada, Chief Operating Officer for Shimada Motors. Bet that looks right fancy on a business card.”

Hanzo sighs and drinks again, smaller and more manageable this time, before setting his glass down. “Did you really Google me?” At McCree’s nod Hanzo shakes his head and looks down at the silver dragon ring on his middle finger. “It was nice speaking to someone who did not know what I did for a living,” he admits, unable to keep the bitter resignation out of his voice.

“Hey, now, it ain’t that big a deal,” McCree says, rotating his bottle slowly on the table.

“Is it not? Most people treat me different once they know.”

The other man scoffs, smirking. “You play Candy Crush, you can’t be that intimidating.”

“Candy Crush  _ Saga, _ get it right. And I have to have something to do during the boring meetings,” Hanzo corrects.

“And I’m tellin’ you, Tiny Tower is where it’s at.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes and a small huff of a laugh escapes, the lazy amused smile that McCree sends his way making his shoulders slowly relax in relief. “I did not mean to deceive you.”

“It’s alright. I’m sure you had your reasons, but there ain’t no need.” And McCree makes it just that easy, the subject that Hanzo had been carefully avoiding these past few months over and done with like it hardly even matters. “Though, now, we really should celebrate. Want somethin’ other than cheese fries? I hear they got hot wings like you won’t believe.”

If he had gone to dinner with Genji, they would most likely be eating lobster and something mixed with truffle oil by now. “Cheese fries sound perfect, actually,” Hanzo says, smile widening. “But I will buy you another drink for putting up with me.”

“I ain’t goin’ to say no to that,” McCree replies, winking at him. It makes Hanzo feel a warm twist of delight deep inside that he dutifully pushes far down. No fawning over the straight boy. “So that’s why you were so tired last week? Workin’ on this deal?”

Hanzo nods. “Yes. And I flew to New York on Friday to meet with their representatives. Volskaya Industries will be supplying us with the raw aluminum for our new engine line. They should be out at the beginning of next year.” He smiles ruefully. “It has been quite a busy past two weeks.”

“Tell me about it,” McCree says, slipping his hat off and setting it on the seat cushion by his thigh. “What does a Chief Operating Officer do, anyway?”

“I am in charge of managing the day-to-day business, and any problems that come from the other officers,” Hanzo explains. “I work with the CEO to develop strategies, broker deals, figure out what sort of direction the company is going to go. It is a position I just took up two years ago. Before then I was working with the engineers in development, but when the former COO retired my father felt I should step up and take the role.”

McCree gives him a look that Hanzo cannot quite place. “Sounds complicated. And like a lot of paperwork.”

“You have no idea,” Hanzo says, looking off to the side. He shrugs, twisting his glass back and forth on the tabletop. “Like I said the first time, it is nothing too exciting. But it is what my father wants so...”

The words trail off, and they must come out as bland as he feels about it because McCree’s frown deepens before he forces a smile, then calls the waitress. “Let me get two shots of Jameson, if you please?”

“We do have to drive, McCree,” Hanzo chastises, but the cowboy pays him no mind.

“Nothin’ but water after this, I swear. Come on, we have to celebrate, and that calls for a toast, and we sure as shit ain’t toastin’ with beer.” The whiskey arrive in short order with their food and Jesse raises his shot glass for Hanzo who follows suit. “Felicidades,” he says, clinking his glass with Hanzo’s.

“Domo,” he replies, smiling at the other man.

They knock their shots back in unison and Hanzo comes out of it with a sudden cough, not used to the burn of the whiskey. McCree squints and lets out a long gasping breath as he looks at the empty glass before sitting it down. “Not to your tastes? Whiskey ain’t for everybody.”

Hanzo finally catches his breath and licks his lips, considering before shaking his head. “No, I was just not expecting it. It is...not bad.”

“Oh, we are so goin’ to have to plan on a cab one of these nights,” McCree drawls, digging into the cheese fries. “I can’t wait to see you let loose for once.”

“Shut up, McCree,” Hanzo laughs.

This is why he likes McCree so much. Well, one of the reasons, anyway, but an important one. The other man has this uncanny way of making Hanzo laugh and let go, at least for a few hours a week. As they talk and joke and debate silly things, Hanzo can feel the tension ease from his frame like shedding clothes after a long day of work. He finds himself laughing loudly and more often, relaxing against the seat back or leaning forward against the table, eating far too much greasy food and not even allowing himself the opportunity to regret it. Not now when the bar lights glow gold and red and green and McCree is crooning along to the classic rock playing over the sound system just because he knows Hanzo thinks it is funny.

It is why it feels like a bucket of cold water to the face when, late in the evening, McCree turns a little sullen and after a little prodding he finally says, “Looks like we’re goin’ to have to cut down on these little nights out of ours for a while.”

Hanzo blinks at him, uncomprehending for a moment. “What? Why?” A small part inside freezes in fear thinking that perhaps McCree has caught on that Hanzo’s affection is a little less than friendly and platonic, but no, surely not. He has done well to keep his vague desires hidden.

“We’re gettin’ into spring now,” McCree says instead. Not what Hanzo was expecting. “I got a bunch of clients already lined up for landscapin’, and I probably won’t have free time for a good while.”

“Oh.” Hanzo’s skin tingles with relief. He will chastise himself later for jumping to all the wrong conclusions. “Is that all? That is fine, we will find time.”

McCree gives a humorless laugh, soft and knowing. “I don’t think you’re understandin’ how time consuming my little side business is on top of my normal hours.”

“We will find time,” Hanzo assures. At McCree’s disbelieving look, he adds, “There is always texting. It is not like I expect immediate responses.”

His lips tilt upward on one side. “Yeah, alright,” McCree says. He picks up his bottle and downs the last dregs of the beer he has been nursing all night. “I start up next Wednesday, so I know I won’t see you then.”

“How does this work with your schedule at the mill?” Hanzo asks.

“Well, I got off Tuesday and Wednesday nights usually. So I work my normal hours and then instead of having days off I do the garden work. I’ll stay up and work in the mornin’, take a nap mid-day when the heat’s at its worst, then work again in the evenings. Might squeeze in a few clients on my work days, just stay up after work and maybe mow some lawns, lay out some seeds, you know. Quick hour jobs.”

“Will you get enough rest like that?”

McCree shrugs. “I’ve done it before. It will be hard for a while, but the extra income will be worth it.”

Hanzo has his doubts, but he does not dare open his mouth to say so. He is well aware that most of the world does not make the money he does, that he was given opportunities that others dream of having. Privileged, he knows. Spoiled, when his mind thinks of Genji and maybe himself to some degree. McCree does not need someone like Hanzo Shimada, COO of a corporation featuring his surname in the logo, to tell him how to live his life. 

He cannot help but think that someone like McCree, selfless and hard-working, deserves better.

But he keeps his peace and they change the subject, and soon enough they are paying their tabs and heading to the parking lot. Every time they start to separate McCree comes up with something else to say about the little plant now in Hanzo’s care. “Now if you are goin’ to put him outside, make sure to wait until we’re into April. The weather around here’s so contrary, knowin’ our luck we’d get a flash freeze and the poor thing would be dead before he’s had a chance. And if you do transfer him, he’s got to have well-drainin’ soil, or even sand or rocks, but it has to be--”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Hanzo laughs, endlessly amused by how doting McCree is with his plants. Reminds him of himself. “It is the most low-maintenance plant you have given me, I think I can handle it. I think you just do not want to say goodbye to your baby.”

McCree grins, shrugging. “Somethin’ like that,” he says mysteriously before taking a few steps backward toward his truck. “Hey, congrats again on the work thing.”

“Thank you. I will text you later this week?”

“Yep. Talk to you later. Drive safe.”

“You too.” Hanzo gets in the car and they nod at each other before McCree drives off, truck loud in the otherwise quiet night. Hanzo follows in his own car until they reach the main road where they each turn opposite directions at the light, hand raised in farewell, and then McCree is just a pair of taillights disappearing into the dark.

Hanzo feels oddly cold now that he is alone. There is hardly any light in the car other than the glow from the LEDs in the dash. Everything is quiet. He does not bother turning on the radio, listening to nothing but the rev of the engine and his own breathing all the way home.

Home is a two story colonial style house in a quiet affluent neighborhood north of Charlotte. It is not exactly the home Hanzo ever imagined for himself--for years he lived in a sixth story corner loft and before that in his sprawling family estate--but a few years ago he felt the itch to get away from the bustle and clutter of uptown. For as much research as he did into the area and picking a house, he really does not care much for it. A place to sleep at night, the sort of property his father expected him to have by this age. The plus side of course is that now his plants have a place to exist, rather than an idea he toyed with but never committed to. A small balcony garden had never been good enough for him.

The cats do not meet him at the door, which he expected. He spots Udon lounging on the top level of his cat tree in the darkened living room, eyes reflective disks in the darkness. Soba he finds sprawled out in the master bedroom taking up as much of the comforter as his stretched limbs can. He chirps at Hanzo when he comes in, but otherwise remains lazy and still.

After Hanzo dresses down to his boxers he fills his watering pot and makes a pass over the plants arranged around the big bay windows next to the bed. He has quite the collection, all placed just so to get the most out of the sun that comes in throughout the day. Special care is given to the ones McCree has gifted him with over the past few months: the potted jasmine on a homemade wooden trellis, newly gripping the little ladder and preparing to spread. The broad-leafed caladium, elephant ears in hunter green and a red that is just this side of pink. The densely packed mint in a terracotta pot that Udon seems increasingly fond of. The vibrant fuchsia dangling over the edges of its hanging planter.

He gives them each the attention they need then holds the newly acquired ‘chick’ in his hands, surveying where it might fit into the grand scheme of things. In the end it gets a new home along the window sill between the caladium and the delicate fronds of his filmy maidenhair fern. “What do you think, Soba? Does it look good?”

Soba spreads his tiny claws and stretches in all directions before chirping again. Hanzo takes that as a yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns.
> 
> And hey. Thanks.


	3. Leaf Scorch

Loud. Buzzing. Irritating. Obnoxious. Repetitive. Insistent.

The alarm.

Jesse’s bare arm reaches out to slap the button on the top of the clock and the grating noise stops, leaving a few moments of blessed silence. Or, he wishes it was silent. In the distance he can hear the ambient sounds of his neighborhood, the brakes on the school bus releasing after dropping off kids on the corner, Mrs. Strickland shouting for her children to get out of the street and stop acting like heathens, Bobby Rosalind two houses down running his push mower.

He squints over at the time. The three and two zeroes glare angry and red back at him before the last digit ticks over to a one. Groaning, Jesse drops his face back down into the pillow to sigh before pushing himself vertical.

He slept awful. Despite his best efforts to get a solid six hours he only managed four, maybe. It feels like he spent endless time in a haze somewhere between alert awareness and slumber, jerking awake for seemingly no reason at all. The day was just too hot, his house just too poorly insulated to keep the oppressive sun at bay. His poor air conditioner is working at max capacity but it is not enough. Just like it was the day before, and the day before that. Oh, what he would give for even a single overcast morning.

The sheets must have been kicked from the bed at some point in the night as they now lie in a sad tangle down past the foot of the bed. Beneath him the fitted sheet feels damp with his sweat, and Jesse’s skin feels equally clammy and uncomfortable. He sits there for long minutes staring at nothing, mind blank other than the errant thought that if he sits still as a stone maybe time will stop and he will never have to move from this very spot. The listlessness of someone who must savor these few minutes of procrastination like a fine wine.

But those red numbers are ticking steadily upward, so clearly his prayers are going unanswered. The siren call of coffee and its magical properties forces him to his feet. On his way out of the room he notices his phone blinking with missed activity so he grabs it from the charger and the metal arm sitting next to it. While he waits for the coffee to percolate Jesse leans against the counter and attaches his prosthetic before checking his messages. Skipping the nagging texts from Ana and Gabe, he smiles and taps on the conversation he was hoping to see.

_ Hanzo Shimada (12:46): This meeting is never going to end. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (12:48): All I want is lunch, is that so much to ask? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (1:12): FINALLY _

_ Hanzo Shimada (1:28): Okay, I am trying this burger place you recommended. This better be good, with how much you ranted about it. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (1:29): I have high expectations, McCree. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (1:41): I am going to marry this bacon.  _

Jesse laughs, thumbs moving across the screen to type out a response as the coffee machine makes noises behind him.

_ Jesse McCree (3:11): I told you. Was it worth it? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:11): Yes! We have to go there sometime. I saw they had fries with some sort of parmesan and garlic sauce. But work. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:12): Gotta keep that breath minty fresh? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:12): I would rather not taste my own nasty mouth for the rest of the day. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:12): You headed out already? _

_ Jesse McCree (3:12): As soon as I drink down this coffee. _

Speaking of, Jesse turns and pours his first cup of the day. And even though it pains him to do it, he drops a cube of ice in the cup to cool it down faster. As soon as it is approaching safe he downs the whole thing in a series of gulps that the guys at his old bar would have found impressive. He pours another three-cups worth into an aluminum thermos waiting by the coffee maker and then heads back to his room to get dressed, wincing when he reaches into his closet and finds he is down to his last clean cargo pants. “Fuck,” he mutters, pulling them on over fresh underwear. He will have to find time to wash something before tomorrow, or he’ll be going out in stiff dirty clothes. Again.

He will put them in the washer when he gets home, then the dryer before work. That will have to do.

The shirt gets brought with Jesse to the bathroom where he scrubs his face hard with cold water, brushes his teeth, and waters the plants growing on the counter. At least his plants in here are holding up to the summer weather better than he is. Not for the first time he considers the idea of sleeping in the tub, letting the cool tiles of the bathroom soak up the heat that permeates the house. But he can only imagine the havoc that would cause for his back.

Another message awaits him when he gets back to the kitchen for his phone and thermos.

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:16): Drink plenty of water. It’s above 90 today. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:22): Yes sir. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:23): How are those Picotees going? _

Within moments Jesse receives a picture message. In a terracotta pot on what he assumes is Hanzo’s front porch is a gorgeous yellow-red Picotee tuberous begonia. It looks like all the blooms managed to pop at once, and the coloration is astounding. Bright gold fading into a coral on the edges, and if Jesse is not mistaken a few hints of pink on some of the outer petals. He smiles, pushing his feet into his boots.

_ Jesse McCree (3:24): Damn! A mighty fine specimen if I ever saw one. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:25): Thank you. Now go back and get a bottle of water, I mean it. _

Jesse stares at the text then rolls his eyes, turning back to the fridge and getting a bottle from the shelf in the door. “There. Happy?” he asks rhetorically.

The wall of heat and the glaring sunlight that greets him when he opens the door forces his eyes downward. That is the only reason why his eyes catch on the pot on the stairs. Then he does a double take and is dismayed with what he finds. “Aww, hell,” he mutters, kneeling down.

Two days ago his dwarf gold cosmos were blooming a beautiful honey-gold on his front stoop. Bright green foliage pouring over the sides of their pot, they are supposed to be an open and inviting welcome to anyone who may happen upon his doorstep. Now they are little more than crispy husks, burned dark by the sun. “I knew it was too damn hot out for you.” The pot gets taken back inside and set on the kitchen table. His fingers ache to get to work on it, trim off the destroyed plant matter and see what is left of it, if anything. But time. Not enough time. “I’ll deal with you later, buddy, I promise,” he says as he splashes some water on it, hoping the poor thing is not dead.

Hooking up his truck to the trailer that holds all his lawn equipment is an easy task that Jesse does not even have to think about anymore, and soon enough he is on the road headed south. While he waits at a stoplight he digs out one of the granola bars he tossed into his glove compartment. He is not really hungry this soon after waking up, and it somehow manages to be both sticky and dry at the same time, but he forces it down as well as another cup’s worth of coffee.

His first clients of the day are the Magliozzis, John and Katherine. Their neighbors the Freemans are some of Jesse’s oldest clients and were happy to give a recommendation. A young couple, the Magliozzis live in a modest house with sprawling property dotted with dogwoods.  They recently moved from New Jersey and are a bit lost when it comes to the particulars of landscaping in North Carolina. Particularly how to deal with Japanese beetles.

“We’ve just never seen anything like this before,” John is saying as they walk up the long drive lined with pink flowering trees. His wife is safely back in the house watching from the window. “We used to live in an apartment. You don’t have bugs like this in an apartment! Katie will hardly come outside; she hates bugs, you know.”

“Right. Well, they ain’t dangerous to humans, so she doesn’t need to worry about being stung or bit or anything like that.” Jesse ducks his head aside as a beetle goes zooming past his head. “Maybe dive-bombed a bit.”

In the air around them hundreds of copper-and-emerald-shelled beetles fly in arcing patterns around the dogwood trees. So many that Jesse’s ears buzz with the sound of them, a low hum filling his skull. John stays back while Jesse ventures close to one of the trees and checks the leaves. Nearly skeletonized, practically picked clean. “You’ve got a pretty bad swarm of them, Mister Magliozzi. We’ll have to be aggressive with them if you want to salvage the trees this year. I can spray organic neem oil, that will get their feeding under control. To get rid of them completely you’ll need to put up some traps for them.”

John frowns uncertainly as most clients do when presented with a solution that is not straightforward. “You can’t just kill them with some sort of pesticide?”

“Not unless you want to kill every other thing in your garden, no, sir,” Jesse replies, reciting his go-to line on the subject. “Don’t you worry, though. It’s early enough in the year we can get a wrangle on them. Once we get the trees sprayed and the traps up, you’ll see a significant drop off by next week. Next spring we can go about preventing it from being a problem. Stop them before they get settled in. How’s that sound?”

Jesse’s optimism seems to do the trick and John happily agrees before leaving Jesse to do his thing. Spraying neem oil takes hardly any time at all, and hanging traps is only as dangerous as climbing a ladder. And he is ever-so-glad he restocked his small collection of beetle traps the last time he went out for supplies, because this job wipes out his stockpile. 

Overall the job takes less time than he expected, but afterwards John gets him to talking about future landscaping projects and possible planting for later in the summer. It turns into a walk around the property and discussions of adding a decorative fence, possibly a stone bench and what would look good growing under one of the larger dogwoods. Even though the clock is ever-ticking in his mind, he does not rush the conversation. After all, the Magliozzis are good people and good for business. Jesse finally gets on the road after pressing two more business cards for McCree’s Landscaping Service into John’s hand with the promise that he would be out next week to check on the Japanese beetles.

Which means he has no time for a proper meal.

The granola from earlier still feels like a dead weight in his stomach, but he eats another bar anyway and finishes off the coffee. And he takes a few moments to check his phone again, calling back a client who wants to set up an irrigation system before addressing the new text messages he has missed. The latest is from Hanzo, just a few minutes ago.

_ Hanzo Shimada (4:43): Genji wants to go out drinking tonight, again. Any ideas on how to get out of it? _

_ Jesse McCree (4:48): You begged off the last two times, you don’t want him to get pissy about it. _

_ Jesse McCree (4:48): Believe it or not, you are not actually a hermit. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (4:48): But but but _

_ Hanzo Shimada (4:49): I could be a hermit if I wanted to be. _

_ Jesse McCree (4:49): No buts! And I’m sure you’d make a fine hermit. Living in a cave, leaves in your hair. Big beard. Go, drink a shot for me. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (4:50): Are you describing yourself? If I end up holding back hair while he vomits I am blaming you. _

_ Jesse McCree (4:50): Have fun! _

_ Hanzo Shimada (4:50): Ugh. _

Jesse laughs to himself as he turns down a short drive. The generic office building has an equally generic name and generic logo, the sort of label that tells nothing about the business or what they do inside. Not that Jesse particularly cares; all he has to do here is mow the lawn nice and short in neat little lines. The size of the property means it will take him a full hour to do it, which is fine by him considering he does not even have to talk to anyone inside. Probably the easiest and most mindless task of his day. The only real issue being the complete lack of shade as the lawn stretches on with nothing at all to block the sun. He plops his work hat on his head before getting out of the truck.

As he unloads the mower from his trailer, employees wearing white collared shirts and casual dress pants filter out in small groups, going from the nicely air-conditioned building to their air-conditioned cars and headed home from their work day. Jesse fights down the twinge of irrational jealousy--what would he even know about generic-office-job at generic-office-building, anyway?

Climbing onto the riding mower, he starts the engine and gets to work.

 

\---

 

“Holy shit.”

It is a good thing that Jesse is alone, because he would never use that sort of language in front of a customer. Most customers. He has a few that take cursing to an artform, so they probably would not mind. Right now, the only words that come to mind are a series of expletives. Taking another long draw from the water bottle Hanzo insisted he bring, he shakes his head and presses the cool plastic to his forehead.

The tree before him used to be a mighty pin oak. Now it is creeping toward the grave as fast as the poison ivy taking it over. Jesse has seen ivy worse than this but usually on trees on the edge of the woods, not sitting as the prominent cornerstone of a suburban backyard. Nine thick stems of poison ivy as wide as his wrist wrap up and around the base of the trunk headed skyward. From there a latticework of green and red vines engulf the tree.

His arms itch at the very thought of taking on this beast.

Jesse takes out his phone and snaps a picture, because he has to share this with somebody. While the message sends he carefully rolls his shirt sleeves back down and buttons them at the wrists, then pulls on his work gloves. And, because he likes to breathe easy at night, he tugs a pollen mask up over his nose and mouth. If he gets poison ivy  _ again  _ he is going to be very displeased.

The only good thing about taking out poison ivy this size is that he gets to use an axe. Smiling a little wildly to himself, he hefts up the tool in question and picks a good height before he starts swinging. Carefully he chops a foot-wide chunk out of each vine just large enough that it will not quickly grow back together. Even in the fading light of the setting sun he can see oil oozing off the stems. The herbicide he mixed for this particular job is on the strong side. He keeps his mouth clenched shut and holds his breath while applying it to the exposed edges where he cut the plant open. Organic does not mean digestible, after all.

After that all he has to do is yank down the vines he can and leave the rest for removal after the herbicide does its work. The mass of them gets hauled to the front curb for pickup by the city and Jesse can feel his skin start to prickle afterwards. Hoping its just his imagination, he flings his gloves and shirt into the back of the cab and heads home. He nearly reaches for his phone in his pocket no less than four times on the drive, but no, touching these clothes with bare skin will be the fastest way to a future of irritation and ointment.

Shower is first priority. He peels off every layer and drops them in a pile as soon as he is in the door. After retrieving his phone he pads naked through the house, careful not to drop grass and dirt debris as he goes. Even though intellectually he knows that the inside of his house is not that much cooler than the outside, he still breaks out into goosebumps at the chill that settles over his sweaty skin. The phone gets left on the counter while he gets the water going. Stepping under the water feels like heaven, and Jesse groans at the feel of it. Too hot against his limbs and not hot enough against his core, he shivers and gets to scrubbing off the filth, the water swirling dark and bubbly around his feet. If he had it his way he would stand under the spray until his fingers and toes turned wrinkled and pruned. The water, now going from luke-warm sharply toward cold, forces him out.

He checks his phone again after roughly rubbing a towel through his damp hair.

_ Hanzo Shimada (6:35): He is late. Why am I not surprised? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (6:41): I mean he is the one that made me rush home to get ready but no, make me sit here waiting like I have nothing better to do with my time. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (6:44): I have peat moss in the garage just waiting to be divided and seeded, but noooooo… _

_ Hanzo Shimada (7:05): Okay we are on our way. I promise I will not let him take the phone from me this time. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (7:06): If you get any drunk texts they are not from me I swear. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (7:09): Is that POISON IVY? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (7:10): Where are you that it is that bad? You are going to be covered in it! I hope you have protection! _

_ Hanzo Shimada (7:12): Not that kind of protection, get your mind out of the gutter. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (7:12): Though you should use that kind, too. ANYWAY. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (7:59): Are you not off that job yet? You did not die of heat stroke, did you? _

_ Jesse McCree (8:11): Calm your pretty little head, I’m alive. Just got out of the shower. You must be bored out of your mind if you’re texting me instead of having a good time. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:12): He has hit on the waitress and the bartender and the couple at the end of the bar. The gentleman seemed less than pleased. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:12): Already starting something? He’s in a mood. Call me if things get unruly and you need a bail. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:13): I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:13): Oh I bet you are. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:13): *eye roll emoji* _

By now, Jesse has moved back to the bedroom. The sheet gets picked up off the floor and he makes sure to set the alarm--an hour and a fifteen minutes, not a moment more--before laying down. The only light in the room is the soft gold of the fading sun coming through the edges of his curtains and the cool white from his phone screen.

_ Jesse McCree (8:14): At least tell me you’re trying to have a little fun? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:14): It could be better. This bar is so pretentious. Horrible company. We need to get you a day off. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:14): If wishes were horses. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:15): How many days in a row have you worked? _

_ Jesse McCree (8:15): Not too many _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:15): How many? _

_ Jesse McCree (8:15): I can’t just skip work. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:16): That is not an answer. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:16): It doesn’t matter. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:17): It does matter! Surely by now you have accrued enough time to at least get a few days off with pay. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:17): Vacation days or sick days, I do not know how your company works. Or at least not take clients on one of your days off. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:18): A little extra income is not worth all this! _

_ Jesse McCree (8:18): Thanks I’ll keep that in mind next time the electric bill comes due. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:19): And the ER bill from when you keel over with exhaustion? Will it be worth it? _

_ Jesse McCree (8:20): You’re making a big deal out of nothing, I’m fine, I can handle it. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:20): You know I am right. Why are you being so stubborn? _

_ Jesse McCree (8:21): You think you’re so smart, know better than me, do you? Real easy for you to say. You don’t know anything about it, you don’t know me, so how about you keep your opinions to yourself. _

Ellipsis pop up beneath the last text, an indicator that Hanzo is formulating what will surely be a scathing reply, but Jesse does not want to read it. Muting his notifications, he drops his phone on the bed and turns his back to it, curling around his spare pillow. Even as simmering anger pulses through him he knows he was too harsh. But he does not have time to get into that argument with Hanzo again, not when he has work in less than two hours and he has already cut into his scheduled nap. Besides, nothing either of them says can change the facts.

Guilt keeps him from falling straight to sleep.

 

\---

 

“You look like hell.”

Jesse smiles ruefully when he looks up and finds Reinhardt Wilhelm waiting on him at the corner. “And a good evening to you, too, big guy.”

The night air is still uncomfortably warm around them, which does not bode well for the warmth inside the mill itself. They both have their company work shirts thrown over a shoulders and their lunch bags under an arm. Reinhardt falls into step with Jesse when the younger man catches up, their equally long legs keeping pace as they head the few blocks toward the mill entrance. “Yes, good evening, how are you, I am fine, yes. Now we are past pleasantries. You look like hell.”

“Just been a rough day is all,” Jesse dismisses. “You know how it is.”

“How many jobs did you take?”

“Three earlier.” He tries to weather the pointed silence but he can practically feel the expectant look boring into the side of his skull. “One more lined up later.”

“Jesse,” Reinhardt chastises.

“I’m fine. Really.”

“You did not take an energy drink again, did you?”

“No! No, never again, I poison myself with good ole bitter coffee like a man should, I promise,” Jesse insists. The incident with the energy drinks is one he would rather never even think about again. It is never a good thing when your coworker can visibly see you heart racing in your throat.

“You will work yourself to the bone. Too young for this!” Reinhardt insists, loudly. Pretty much everything Reinhardt does is done loudly.

“Yeah, so I’ve been told,” Jesse mumbles, looking forward. There are other people walking the street, all headed the same direction. “If I’m too young for this, aren’t you too old? You’re pushin’ retirement, ain’t you?”

Reinhardt scoffs before issuing a booming laugh. “Again with the retirement! I would be so bored! Retirement is for quitters, anyway!” He gives Jesse’s back a resounding pat that has him stumbling forward a few steps with the momentum.

Jesse likes Reinhardt. The German immigrated some forty years ago when he was a young man but no less burly, seeking the American Dream or maybe just warmer weather. He has been working at the textile mill for nearly as long as Jesse has been alive. They met on Jesse’s first lunch break the day he started, back when he worked in shipping and receiving, a back-breaking job that Jesse hated with a passion but it put food on the table. Reinhardt had been working a forklift moving pallets of unprocessed material to whatever station it was needed. They made fast friends, Jesse being drawn to the older man’s upbeat nature and Reinhardt endlessly amused by the ever-joking McCree. When Reinhardt got transferred to the Dye Room a year later, he lobbied hard for Jesse to join him. They have been working together ever since.

Working together and all up in each other’s business the whole way. “You win the lottery and I retire from mill, be your kept man, ja?”

“If I win the lottery, you’ll never work another day,” Jesse promises with a smirk. “Might help if we bought tickets, of course.”

“Yes, yes, that would help.” Reinhardt’s smile fades slightly when he gives Jesse another assessing look. “You are troubled. Your smile does not reach your eyes. What is wrong?”

“I told you, I’m just tired today.”

“Bull. You tired every day. And while that is a problem, it is not the problem. So?” He nudges Jesse’s elbow this time, gentler but still enough to make him have to shift his weight while he walks. “You have fight with Gabe? Ana? Fareeha?”

Jesse briefly considers just biting his tongue and ignoring the questions. It would not be the first time, and he and Reinhardt know each other well enough that it would not cause offense. Reinhardt is incredibly good at giving space when necessary, for all he seems to take up all the air in a room. If Jesse gives a sign of it, Reinhardt will back off. He always knows when to let it go or when to push. Another nudge at his side shows maybe today is a day for pushing. “Me and Hanzo,” Jesse says grudgingly. “We had words.”

“Ah, fancy-pants flower friend,” Reinhardt states knowingly.

The term makes Jesse turn his head away and grin. Oh, if Hanzo could hear that, he can just imagine the sort of sour face he would make. Like sucking on a lemon. “Yeah, him.”

“You tell him about big gay crush?”

“Oh my God, could you not call it that?” Jesse cries, glancing ahead then behind them. Despite his paranoia, no one on the street notices or cares.

Reinhardt laughs at Jesse’s expense. “Did you?”

“Of course not! Are you crazy?”

“So what, then?”

Jesse chews on his lip a moment before admitting, “He thinks I need to take a day off, and I told him to mind his business.”

“Ah! So he agrees with me!” Reinhardt interprets, pleased as ever. “Smart, very smart, I like him, ja, he knows what is good for you.”

“You know I can’t--”

“Maybe he wants you to take a day off and spend it with him, ja? He take real good care of you, if you get what I mean.”

“Please,  _ please _ , stop making that face at me.” Their conversation from earlier swirls in his head and Jesse frowns. “He just doesn’t get it.”

Reinhardt stops, but only to deliver a more firm message. “Just because he is not you, does not mean he cannot understand. He is only looking out for you, same as I. Would you not do the same for him?”

Well, shit, if that does not make him feel the guilt even more. “Maybe,” he admits.

“It is the same every year. You get cranky when you are this tired.”

“I’m not  _ cranky.  _ You act like I’m some sort of petulant two year old.”

“You will see, I am right,” Reinhardt continues, mischievous grin returning. “You can make it up to him. Come up with very creative apology? On that day off you need to take?”

“Would you stop?!”

They banter the rest of the way through the gates, the towering smokestacks overhead pumping out white steam into the night sky. They pass people on the shift change, waving at those they know from other divisions, and make their way over to Building 5, better known as the Dye Room. The red brick building is not the biggest nor the loudest of the factory, but a distinct chemical scent hangs like a cloying mist in the air around it. They don their work shirts and safety equipment just inside the door: protective aprons, safety gloves, goggles, and air filtration masks. Clocking in, they head to their stations to start their shift.

While Jesse’s hands are busy feeding unprocessed treads into a dyepot (Kingfisher green, which is a lovely color in Jesse’s opinion, mainly because it does not saturate his eyes after staring at it for ten hours straight) his mind is wholly occupied with the weight of his phone in his pocket.

Reinhardt is right, of course, damn old man. He is cranky. His nerves have been frayed for the past two weeks. He was snippy with Ana, who has been avoiding him for the most part except for those texts he never got around to checking. He brought up old wounds with Gabe the last time they talked and has since been avoiding Gabe, too, and yeah, more ignored texts there. Fareeha must have caught wind of his foul mood and has not even made an attempt to call lately.

Really, the only people he has not snapped at are Reinhardt and his customers. Because Reinhardt is just too gentle a giant to snap at, and because Jesse is a salesman who would rather not lose what little clientele he has no matter how irritating he finds them.

And Hanzo hardly knows Jesse, not really. Sure, they have talked at length about a lot of things, but they only met, what, just a few months ago? Sometimes Jesse forgets because it feels like they have known each other for years. But Hanzo has never gone through a summer as Jesse’s friend, never dealt with his short fuse, or his mood swings, or his long spans of quiet--

Huh. He has not really been that quiet with Hanzo this year. Despite the hectic schedule they have talked nearly every day.

He really should have checked those messages before work.

No amount of guilt can keep him from practically inhaling his lunch when he goes on break. He knows his table manners are not always great at work, but the group of knitters down the table from him could at least try to hide their disgust at the behavior. Not that he cares; his stomach has been growling for the last five hours, and manners are for other people. Two sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a candy bar later, he slips outside to the designated smoking area and lights up a cigarillo. The wave of nicotine washes over him as he finally bites the bullet and opens the lock screen on his phone.

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:19): That is not how I meant it and you know it! _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:20): Maybe you should listen to someone else for once! Because maybe they give a shit about you, what a concept! _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:29): You know what just forget it. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (1:22): I apologize for what I said earlier. It was entirely inappropriate and out of line. You are right, you do not need someone telling you how to live your life. Especially someone like me. I will be more mindful in the future, and it will not happen again. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (1:24): And I deserve getting ignored, but can you just let me know you got there safe? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (1:25): Or not. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (1:27): You are at work, I know. And this is weird. I might have had a few shots. Sorry again. _

Shame twists like a knife a little sharper in Jesse’s gut. Hanzo just had to go and be decent about it. And he apologized, a wholly unneeded apology no less. Gripping his cigarillo between his teeth, Jesse sets out to make it right the only way he can.

_ Jesse McCree (3:21): I’m the one that should be apologizing. You ain’t saying anything that I haven’t heard from half the people I know. You’ve got good intentions and I’m tired and taking it out on you. It’s no excuse but it’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry for that, and sorry for being a son of a bitch lately. _

Not expecting an answer back this late at night--or early in the morning, depending on your point of view--he hits send and sighs, leaning his head back against the brick. He takes another long draw from his cigarillo and blows the smoke up toward the sky. Hopefully the apology is enough. It would be a shame to lose a friend like Hanzo just because--

The vibration in his hand is startling enough that he nearly drops his phone. Fumbling it against his stomach, he turns it over and sees the screen lit up with an unchecked message. From Hanzo.

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:22): You were right, though. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:22): What the hell are you still doing up? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:23): Couldn’t sleep. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:23): You were right, it is not my place to tell you what to do. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:24): I really don’t mind as much as I let on. Just moody lately. Promise. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:24): Still. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:24): I mean it, it’s fine, really. You don’t strike me as the type to keep your opinion to yourself, anyway. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:25): Perhaps. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:25): I didn’t mean offense. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:25): None taken. Water under the bridge and all that. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:26): This ain’t why you’re still awake, is it? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:26): Not entirely. Genji is passed out in my bathroom. _

_ Jesse McCree (3:27): Are you serious? _

_ Jesse McCree (3:27): I knew you Shimada boys were wild. You have got to tell me about that later. I’m about off break, text me? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (3:28): We have our moments it seems. I will text when I wake up. Do not work too hard, McCree. Goodnight. _

Jesse replies with a hasty farewell of his own and stubs out his cigarillo, pocketing both. If Reinhardt notices that Jesse spends the second half of his shift a lot more happy than the first, he keeps the observation to himself.

 

\---

 

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:05): Why do I let Genji talk me into these things? Why did I let YOU talk me into saying yes? I had to ask my assistant for Aspirin since Genji took the whole bottle with him. She gave me a look. A very judging look. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:06): Alright, spill. What happened. Me and Rein are dying to know. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:07): Okay, so this big group came in and of course Genji had to go make friends, and they convinced him to machine gun tequila with them. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:07): Wait, you know what machine gunning means? Did you do it with them??? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:07): That is not important. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:07): So after they did that, they started trying to one-up each other on the crazy things they could do. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:08): It is SO important and don’t think I’m forgetting this, we are discussing this later, in detail! And oh no what did he do? _

_ Jesse McCree (8:11): Should I worry about how long you’re taking to write this? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:11): And Genji is a big show-off, so of course he could not just let it go. And I think he was trying hard to impress the skinny one with the curly hair. Anyway, he gets up on the bar and yells that he can do a backflip from one table to the other. Of course he says this when I’m nowhere near him. By the time I got close enough to stop him it was too late. He stuck the landing but the table broke under his weight. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:11): Shit! Is he okay?? _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:12): He bashed his nose against one of the bar stools. Not broken, but it bled enough to ruin the evening. _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:12): Needless to say he whined all the way home and made the hangover extra unbearable. _

_ Jesse McCree (8:13): Reinhardt says he’s lucky he didn’t knock his teeth out, and I say he’s lucky YOU didn’t knock his teeth out. Glad you guys had fun though! _

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:14): Fun is relative. _

Jesse laughs and bids Reinhardt farewell at the end of the block, splitting to go their separate ways. It is cool outside compared to Building 5 and he fills his lungs with deep breaths, enjoying the scent of morning in the air. It helps to wake him up, a good thing considering he does not even bother to go inside when he gets home. Instead he hops right in his truck and heads out for the last client of his day.

Don Mertens, middle-aged three-time divorcee, is hovering just inside the glass front door of his home when Jesse arrives. He is always hovering just inside the glass door when Jesse shows up to mow his lawn. Because Don Mertens is, perhaps, Jesse McCree’s worst client. It is a toss-up between him and the couple that just up and moved without paying their last two invoices. As he spots Mertens doing his angry little fidget at the door, Jesse decides no, Mertens is definitely the worst client.

Bracing himself, Jesse gets out of the truck and ignores the hard impatient stare as he unloads the mower from the back. If he moves quickly enough he can have the mower running before Mertens decides to come and talk. Unfortunately this morning luck is not on his side because Jesse is just moving to sit astride the mower when Mertens comes power-walking out to the truck. “Mornin’ Mr. Mertens,” Jesse says with a friendly wave.

“You were late, again,” Mertens states, coming to a stop a good ten feet away. He still has his house slippers on with his khaki shorts. And socks. Halfway up his calves.

Tension coils in Jesse’s shoulders and chest even as he keeps a pleasant smile on his face. “Our contract has it so I arrive between eight-thirty and nine-thirty every Friday. It ain’t even nine in the mornin’ yet.”

“It’d be more convenient if you got here at eight,” Mertens continues, as if Jesse did not even speak. “I’ve been thinking about it, and you should come thirty minutes earlier. Or an hour. That way I can get off to work sooner.”

“And again, Mr. Mertens, I’d love to do that, but I have a prior commitment until eight in the morning as is. If you’d like to change the service to a different day, I can come earlier on Tuesdays and Wednesdays--”

“No, no! It has to be Friday, I throw my mixers on Friday nights, the yard has to look nice!”

Jesse tries his best not to sound forceful. Being forceful will not solve anything. “Plus, you don’t even need to be here at all if you have places to be. I can assure you I work unsupervised just fine.”

Mertens makes a face, throwing distrustful eyes at Jesse and crossing his arms. “No, contractors like you come around and say you’ve done the work but if no one’s watching you just skate on by and try to get paid for nothing. I’m not about to leave you unattended on my property just so you can--”

“I really got to get started, if you want to get to work anytime soon,” Jesse says sharply, grabbing the keys and cranking the engine. It roars to life and drowns out whatever else Mertens tries to interject, and Jesse smiles and nods at him friendly again before throwing it in gear. By the time he makes his first pass around the yard Mertens has retreated back inside to glare at him from the big bay windows in his front room.

What should be one of his easier clients is always his most stressful, knowing someone is judging his every move and just looking for faults, anything that would get him out of paying in full. His next hour is spent in tense silence struggling to not let the slowly rising temperature and the steady loud drone of the mower lull him into a daze. By the time he finishes even the pressure from Mertens is nothing but a distant weight in the back of his mind thanks to his need for sleep. He loads the mower back onto the trailer as fast as he can, jamming his finger in the trailer’s tailgate in his haste, then gets out of there before Mertens can come out for round two.

He walks into his house sweaty, covered in wet grass, and exhausted. His limbs feel like they are weighted down with lead. His finger throbs. His mouth feels gummy while his throat is parched. The inside of his wrist itches with growing intensity. All in all everything is gross in the worst ways. The shower he takes is perfunctory at best, and he stumbles to the bed in nothing but a wet towel. It is not even discarded before he falls onto the unmade sheets. He barely remembers to set his alarm. Five hours. It will have to be enough.

The next afternoon Jesse will realize he never put that load of laundry in the washer. His dwarf gold cosmos will have shed half its broken and burnt petals on the counter. And he will have an unread message on his phone.

_ Hanzo Shimada (8:41): I am going to be in meetings the rest of the day so I will not be on. I will text later. Try to get some rest, okay? You’re going to burn yourself out at this rate. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello happy readers!
> 
> Just a quick announcement, I'm going to be in the To Ashes zine! A McHanzo zine with a great collection of artists and writers! We're just getting started but from what I have seen already it's going to be awesome. And you'll be able to get writing and art from yours truly! If you're interested check it out at toashesfanzine on tumblr and/or @overzines on Twitter.
> 
> Thanks, and enjoy!


	4. Aloe Vera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Long time no see, everybody!
> 
> So since last chapter I've written 3 pieces for a zine and 7 pieces for McHanzo week! Also, my brother is getting married, so my current role has been converted to Wedding Do-Everything Person! (I know I've said this in multiple places so sorry if you've already heard that, it REALLY is taking up a lot of time.) Just wanted everyone to know that Rootbound and Popcorn Redemption are still being worked on, if not as often as I'd like. Trust me, I would MUCH rather be working on that than making burlap roses and spray painting aluminum cans and who knows what other craft project they'll come up with tomorrow.
> 
> Anyway, got this out in time for 4th of July, so for those who celebrate and for those who don't, Happy Tuesday! Thanks for reading!

The phone call ends and Hanzo sighs, flopping back onto the end of his bed. He has to fight to temper the surge of disappointment in his veins. Sure, he has not seen McCree in nearly two months now. They have mostly communicated via text, which is fine. More than fine, considering how the only other person Hanzo has ever had such open communication with is his brother. But Hanzo had been looking forward to seeing McCree for the past week. They were going to meet for breakfast, or what would be McCree’s dinner. Pancakes are good anytime, McCree insisted.

Hanzo thumps the phone once against his forehead. It is not like McCree got sick on purpose.

The man had sounded genuinely apologetic on the phone. At least when his voice was understandable; half the conversation was nothing but sniffling and deep coughing that actually rattled the speaker in his phone. Not faked, he told the vicious little voice of doubt in his head.

Holding the phone up over his head so he can see, Hanzo checks the time. The damn fool is probably walking to work at the mill right now. Surely the heat and humidity in that building is making things ten times worse. The idiot has been pushing himself for weeks, taking on extra clients in his landscaping business, pushing himself further and further without relief in sight. Hanzo has heard McCree’s reasons a dozen times, that he has to get his name out there so he can get more work, that he cannot slack off or he might lose the clients he has. On the surface, Hanzo understands. That does not mean he has to be happy about it. 

Interrupting his musings, Soba hops up onto the bed with a little chirp. Hanzo pets him absently while he scrolls back up through his last few conversations with McCree, thinking about all the extra work the man has talked about. Now that he thinks about it, he is pretty sure McCree has not had a day off from both jobs since...May? Or was it April? Distracted, he does not notice Soba growing annoyed until the cat nips at the meat of his index finger.

“Ow!” Hanzo jerks his hand back and looks at Soba. “Kitty, no! No biting!” he reprimands, rubbing at the little tooth indentation Soba left. Not deep enough to pierce the skin. A warning bite. “What was that for?”

Soba stares at Hanzo, those big blue eyes intensely focused on his owner, and meows. The way Soba and Udon do this sometimes makes Hanzo feel like his cats are trying to communicate something profoundly important, but nine times out of ten they just want their litter changed. After a few seconds Soba meows at him again, shifting on his paws and rumbling a little, still staring at his master.

“What is it, Soba?” Hanzo asks, chuffing Soba under his chin. The cat leans into the touch but his gaze does not waver, intent and knowing on Hanzo’s face. “What do you want?”

When Soba was about a year old, he learned that if Hanzo was not paying attention he could reach out and tap his master on the shoulder. Sometimes it was a soft pat but usually it involved the grazing of claws on his bare bicep. Either way, it was not meant to be a swipe but just a gentle touch to get Hanzo to look at him. At the time Hanzo thought it was the cutest thing he had ever seen and he can admit countless hours were spent trying to get the phenomenon on film. Now, Soba raises one of his big slender paws and taps it on the hand holding the phone. Three times in quick succession, then he settles back on all fours to knead at the comforter, staring at Hanzo.

“What? You want to talk to McCree?” Hanzo asks, smiling at his cat’s odd behavior. He cradles the phone in one hand and rolls to trap Soba in his arms. The gentle squeeze he gives Soba has the cat purring harder. “You miss your buddy? You have not seen him in a long time, huh?”

Soba wrestles his way out from beneath Hanzo’s hold and stomps up onto Hanzo’s gut, making himself comfortable. He twists enough to butt his head against the phone, looking up at Hanzo with a knowing expression.

Ridiculous.

“He is sick, Soba,” Hanzo says, scratching behind Soba’s ears. “He needs time to rest, not visit with kitty cats, or me. In fact, it would be best if he could just get some sleep while someone else--”

Hanzo pauses, the thought snagging in his brain like Soba’s claws in his shirt. Would it be such a bad idea? Perhaps overstepping his bounds, but friends help friends in need, do they not? McCree would never ask himself.

A crooked smile stretches across Hanzo’s face and he cups Soba’s head, leaning up to kiss him a few times on the forehead. “Good kitty, you are so smart! So smart, thank you, Soba!”

Soba purrs and kneads harder.

 

\---

 

For the fifth time since leaving the house, Hanzo second-guesses his decision of bringing Soba and Udon. They are normally much more docile in the car so he simply leashed them to the seat belts for safety with enough wiggle room to move. They are certainly taking advantage of it. Hopping as far as they can, pressing up against the windows, wailing with energy, they cannot seem to sit still. He would have put them in their carriers if he had known they would be this excited. At least he thought to stretch the protective cover over the leather so their little claws do not tear up the fabric. “Calm down, calm down, we are almost there,” he says over his shoulder. 

At least his worries about his cats keep him from doubting this little adventure as a whole.

The fears come surging back when McCree’s street and his quaint little millhouse come into view. This is a stupid idea. Presumptuous. Way too forward for two friends who have not known each other that long. If McCree needed help he has a dozen friends or family members that he could ask. He should just turn around and head home.

The sad state of the morning glories hanging from the basket by the front door spurs him forward.

McCree’s truck is parked in the drive with his trailer behind it so at least Hanzo knows the other man did not fib just to go out working more clients. He should have just got home from work sometime in the past hour. There are no lights on in the house, though. “Alright,” Hanzo says, twisting in his seat to address the cats. “Soba? Udon? Best behavior.” They look up at him briefly, both more focused on the view outside the car windows. “Hey, do not ignore me. I mean it.”

For the first time Hanzo appreciates that Genji insisted their three cats be leash trained. The idea seemed useless at the time, and it was mostly for Genji’s amusement with the idea of the two of them walking their cats uptown, but now the skill is coming in handy. Udon and Soba try to run forward and it only takes a gentle tugging on the leash to get them in line. Hanzo is not sure how he would have handled them and the casserole dish in his hands if they were tugging in opposite directions. He gets some odd looks from the woman across the street getting in her car. His polite smile is met with one of confusion.

“Please be home,” Hanzo mutters as he rings the front bell with his elbow. “Please, please, please be home.”

The house creaks with movement inside and Hanzo can hear heavy steps moving from room to room before stopping at the front door. Hanzo raises his eyes as the inner door is pulled open revealing McCree through the screen. The morning sun lights him up and has him wincing to see who is on his front stoop. When he speaks his voice creaks in painful protest. “Hanzo?”

As soon as Soba hears the familiar voice he starts meowing, standing up on his hind legs to try and get at McCree through the screen. This, of course, gets Udon going, filling the whole street with their flat distressed calls. “Shh! Shh! Hush, kitties!” Hanzo attempts to maneuver them back from the door but as soon as it opens Soba tries to dart underneath in the small space between the bottom of the door and the first step. He yanks Hanzo’s arm and nearly makes him drop the casserole dish. “Soba!”

“Let me take that,” McCree says, taking the casserole dish from his arms and heading inside. Hanzo follows quickly just to get the cats in the door--if Soba somehow manages to slip his harness and run amok Hanzo thinks he might lose it. Once inside McCree sets the dish down on the kitchen counter, turning his curious gaze from the covered casserole to Hanzo and his two charges.

Finally raising his eyes from his disobedient cats, Hanzo gets a good look at McCree and...well. He looks awful. The first thing that Hanzo notices are the deep purple bruises under McCree’s eyes, marks that prove just how little sleep he has gotten recently. Above them his normally warm brown eyes are heavy-lidded and bloodshot. His nose is red and irritated while his skin looks pale despite his tan. Hair a disheveled mess, t-shirt and pajama pants clinging to him with sweat, whole body hunched in on itself, McCree looks absolutely miserable. “I should have come sooner,” Hanzo says, shutting the inner door behind him. For the first time McCree’s residual limb is on display, prosthetic missing. Hanzo forces himself not to look at it too closely. 

“What--” McCree’s voice cracks painfully and he tries to clear his throat. The sound of it makes Hanzo’s own throat ache in sympathy. “What are you doing here?”

Right. Explaining. “I--you sounded so bad, last night, on the phone,” Hanzo tries. “I know you wanted to meet and I understood that you need your rest, but, ah, it is nice to have someone...help out, when you are sick. Less to worry about. So I thought...I brought a breakfast casserole? You need to get some food in you, drink juice, and, ah, take the right medicine?” He can tell his face has turned steadily more pink with uncertainty with each fumbled word. Dropping his gaze he settles on Soba weaving a happy figure-eight around McCree’s legs. “I have also heard cats are very comforting when you are ill.”

McCree blinks in sleepy confusion for a long moment before he smiles. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, waving at the dish on the counter.

“I wanted to,” Hanzo replies.

“Thank you. I’m sure it tastes great. Or, it will if I can taste it; ain’t really tasted much the past few days.” He stops as a series of hard coughs wrack his body.

The deep, hollow grating has Hanzo abandoning his doubt and he moves forward to press his palm to McCree’s forehead. Covered in sweat and clinging hair, at least the skin only feels a little warmer than usual. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Reinhardt made me drink one of those protein tea things he likes. Couple hours ago. It hurts to swalla’ so...”

Hanzo tuts to keep McCree from talking further and takes him by the elbow, gently turning him toward where Hanzo thinks the bedroom is. “We will wait for you to eat later, then. For now let us get you to bed. I will bring you juice, or water if that is all you have. Let me change the sheets before you lay down.”

From the lost expression on McCree’s face, Hanzo thinks the other man might be having trouble following. “You’re stayin’?”

“For a bit,” Hanzo lies. He guesses right on the bedroom, and again that the blankets are in filthy disarray. “Where are your extra linens?” After retrieving new sheets and pillow cases Hanzo sets about changing them out, rambling to fill the heavy quiet. “If you already feel ill, slept-in sheets make it that much worse. That is what they say, is it not? I think my mother used to say it, anyway. She would always make sure we had clean linens when we were sick. Cool, clean sheets would feel so good if you had a fever. And the smell of clean laundry helps you relax. If you can smell it, of course, you have some congestion so I am not sure--I should have thought to bring my humidifier, it would have helped open you your sinuses, but we can make do with what medicine you have. You are taking medicine?”

Glancing up, Hanzo is not sure if McCree caught much of that. From where he is leaning against the dresser he just looks dazed, absently cupping the stump of his arm with his other hand like he just realized it is exposed. McCree does manage to wave vaguely in the direction of the bedside table where a pile of over-the-counter drugs and a tissue box rests next to his metal arm. There is a small trashcan on the floor next to it that is overflowing with used tissues. Hanzo ignores his first reaction to recoil. “Right. Are you due a dose of anything?”

“Nah, I just took some stuff.”

Hanzo nods, turning the top sheet back on the bed. “Alright, in you go,” he says, tugging McCree over. He crawls into bed and curls up immediately, a surprise considering Hanzo expected more of a fight. McCree must be just that miserable. A glass of juice is fetched from the kitchen, then Hanzo clicks off the bedside lamp. “When is your alarm set for?”

Another deep rumble as McCree tries to clear his airway, then, “Six. Got to mow Mertens’ yard before work. Special request, got to.”

“You’re going to work like this?” Hanzo asks, frowning.

“Got to,” is all he says in reply.

Mouth settling into a thin line, Hanzo lets it go for now. McCree’s eyes are already slipping closed, and much-needed sleep is more important than the argument at the moment. When McCree gets up he can try to talk him out of it.

Retreating from the room, Hanzo closes the door but for a few inches. The light-blocking curtains along with the little rotating fan that was running on McCree’s dresser should keep it dark and cool enough in there for him to sleep. Hanzo hopes so. Turning around he takes a deep breath. That part of his plan went better than expected. Now he can get to work.

First thing’s first, Hanzo goes back out to the car and fetches the disposable litter box, small bag of litter, and cat food he brought with him. He did not want McCree to feel overwhelmed so Hanzo had left them hidden at first, but you cannot just take cats somewhere without planning ahead. The bathroom seems to be the best place for the supplies, and as soon as Hanzo has them set up he unhooks Soba and Udon from their leashes. “Alright, you two. Remember what I said. Best behavior.” As soon as Soba is free he takes off at a trot toward the back bedroom, easily slipping through the gap in the door. He will keep McCree company, at least. Hanzo still does not understand Soba’s fascination.

Udon is a lot more uncertain of these new surroundings. Crouching down, eyes wide, he gets underneath Hanzo’s legs and presses against his master. Hanzo tries to soothe him with gentle hands and words. “You are okay, Udon, you are safe. I know it is scary, but I am here. McCree is not going to hurt you.” It takes Udon a few moments to finally ease back from the hard press against Hanzo’s prosthetics. Wide-eyed, his curiosity overwhelms his fear and he begins to take tentative steps away, head raised high and nose in the air. Hanzo figures that Udon will be sticking close to him for the majority of the day.

Hanzo stands and actually lets himself take in the state of the house, doing a slow turn in place and making mental note of everything he sees that needs tending. Not as bad as it could be, but still plenty. He pulls his loose hair up into a tight pony tail on his head and takes a deep breath. “Okay, Udon. Time to get started.”

 

\---

 

There is a very good chance that McCree’s trash collectors might hate him after this, Hanzo thinks as he hefts another black bag in one arm and pushes the screen door open with the other. The can at the end of the driveway is fit to burst. Hanzo is hopeful that this is the last bag he will need to cram in there today so he has made it count, clearing out anything from the refrigerator and cabinets that was passed the expiration date. He has to fight to get the lid almost closed once the bag is inside; hopefully it will not rain between now and the Tuesday pick-up.

On his way back to the front door he spots the hanging basket full of withered morning glories again. The blooms that are not crackled from exposure are still an intense violet so pure it saturates the eyes, with inner folds fading to white with gold pistils and stamens. The rest look more like dead husks. “Poor thing,” Hanzo murmurs, leaning up on the balls of his prosthetics to reach the hook holding it up. Damn McCree and his extra few inches, how the hell does he expect people that are not giants to get these plants down--

“Kuso!” Hanzo hisses when he puts a hand out to brace himself and encounters the screen door. The metal has been soaking up the direct sun all morning and burns like a sizzling pan on a fire. His sudden movement sends the hanging basket spinning. Hanzo looks down at his hand; nothing visible yet, but the tell-tale burn is already starting in his skin. “Damn,” he says, going back to the basket.

After taking far too long wrangling it down, Hanzo carries the morning glories inside to the counter. He already cleared it earlier so at least there is space for the injured plant. A quick trim, plenty of water, and a few days out of the sun should do the trick. In the meantime, Hanzo plucks a leaf from the aloe vera plant growing in a pot on the kitchen windowsill. He has noticed that McCree has several: One grows in the kitchen, another in the sill on the bathroom, and another still out on his miniscule back porch. With careful squeezes he dabs the translucent aloe from inside the leaf onto his burned fingers, and the relief is instant. Turning, he leans his hips against the counter and looks out over his progress.

The counters are clean, the dishes washed, dried, and put away. Refrigerator and freezer cleaned and neatly arranged. Straightening up the space in front of the couch and television was an easy chore but one that had to happen early since Udon kept messing with everything within reach. The crumbs in the couch cushions are driving him crazy and if McCree was not sleeping in the other room Hanzo would be vacuuming the whole house from top to bottom. From what he can tell McCree is good about not tracking dirt and grass through the house, but food is another matter entirely. Hanzo had to settle for sweeping the floor as best he could without moving furniture. He mopped the kitchen then the bathroom floor but refrained from getting too in-depth in that room; Hanzo is not sure how much McCree would appreciate someone going through his medicine cabinet or bathroom closet.

There is cleaning to be done in the bedroom, but nothing he can do about that with McCree finally getting some rest. Which reminds Hanzo to check the time and nearly has him lurching for the bedroom door. He has quickly become adept at sneaking through McCree’s bedroom--not that Hanzo has to try too hard when McCree is knocked out from cold and flu medicine--and easing the back door open without making noise. Soba gives him a squinty-eyed glance from his spot snuggled into the small of McCree’s back.

McCree’s washer and dryer is on his back porch. Hanzo has never actually seen someone keep their washer and dryer outside their home, but a glance around at the other back porches in the neighborhood shows that it is fairly common here. Perhaps it is because the houses are so small, not enough space for two more big appliances that need proper ventilation. They are in a little screened-in back porch that is chocked full of plants in pots.

Hanzo manages to get to the porch just in time to stop the buzzer from going off on the dryer. A quick transfer of clothes and restarting both appliance, and he heads back inside to fold. Udon joins him by laying on the back of the couch to watch. “What do you think?” Hanzo asks as he bundles socks together in pairs. “An improvement? Yes, I think so, too. We got a lot done today. I think McCree will appreciate that you checked every one of his couch pillows for lumpiness.”

The only response he gets is Udon sticking one of his front legs out and spreading his toes so each little claw is extended in a lazy stretch.

“Helpful as always, Udon.” Hanzo goes to pick up a bath towel to fold and his eyes stray to the kitchen table once again. He has been avoiding the messy surface all day. Scattered about the linoleum tabletop are stacks of envelopes and papers that all look to be official in nature. None of it is any of Hanzo’s business. But, by now everything else around the table is perfectly clean, making the table feel like an island of clutter in a sea of order. And Hanzo is running out of things that he can do that would not disturb McCree’s sleep.

Hanzo pauses after he finishes the basket of laundry and stares at the table. There is nothing wrong with piling everything together and putting it to the side so he can clean the table. He will even be careful to keep some sort of order to the mess.

Udon looks doubtful. “Don’t look at me like that,” Hanzo whispers, circling around to the table.

His curiosity is piqued with every number his eyes register without meaning to. He cannot help but notice that a lot of the papers are bills, or from the bank. There is even a checkbook folded open under a torn-open envelope, and who even uses checks anymore outside of business? Hanzo forces himself not to look at the columns of numbers or to mentally calculate if it is balanced, flipping it closed and moving it aside.

The medical bills are what gets the better of his curiosity.

Hanzo might have ignored the well-wrinkled paper had the numbers on it been smaller, but five digits is a hard dollar amount to ignore outside of the workplace. In this tiny home in the shadow of a textile mill, they seem gargantuan. Before Hanzo really gives it any thought he is leaning against the table and reading every line of itemization and the update on current payments. The bill is for an extended hospital stay, not one of the ones in the city but a regional hospital a few hours away. Surgeon’s fees, facility fee’s, medical supplies, all printed out in neat, tidy amounts. Beneath that bill is another for the anesthesiologist, partially paid. Then under that one for ambulance costs. And at the bottom, the payment plan for McCree’s prosthetic.

McCree’s arm. They have never talked about what happened to McCree’s arm, just as they have never talked about Hanzo’s legs. Polite ignorance. Nowhere can Hanzo find any mention of insurance picking up the tab for any of these costs. How is McCree paying for all this? Hanzo is not sure what McCree makes at the mill but he can harken a guess and it is not near enough for all these payments. Tack on his normal bills, and paying off his lawn equipment, his house, the everyday expenses of food and clothing and gas--Hanzo feels his stomach roil with unease. 

Forcing his eyes away from the bolded numbers at the bottom of the lists, Hanzo piles everything up as best he can and sets the papers on the end of the counter. Once cleared the table takes no time at all to clean. The laundry gets put away and Hanzo checks in on McCree to find the man has barely moved in the past half-hour. Soba relocated to the end of the bed, curled up in a little ball and enjoying the cozy room.

It is a risk to leave Soba and Udon unsupervised in a strange new place while the homeowner sleeps off a nasty cold, but McCree’s refrigerator is depressingly barren now that the inedible food is gone. Before he can question it, Hanzo grabs the prosthetic bill and his keys and heads out the door.

 

\---

 

“Genji, are you busy?”

“Uh, a little bit. Why? I am not coming into the office today, if that is why you are asking, so do not even bother. It is a Sunday, Hanzo, you need to chill out and--”

“I am not at the office,” Hanzo interrupts. “And I am not always at the office. Why do you always have to start with an argument?”

“I do not always start with an argument! What do you expect me to think, you only call when you want me to do something for work.”

“That is not true!” That comes out louder than intended and Hanzo has to mentally stop himself from ramping up the disagreement even more. He does not need to get kicked out for yelling in the middle of the bread aisle. “Are you busy or not?”

“Eh, I have plans later.” If Hanzo strains his ears he thinks he can make out jaunty electronic music and the clicking of buttons on a game controller. “Why?”

Hanzo picks up a bagged loaf of bread and checks the date. How he wishes he had someone else to call about this. “I need advice.”

“Advice? What kind of advice?”

“If it is appropriate to pay off someone’s bill without asking.”

“Like, at a restaurant?”

“No. A medical bill.”

The happy gameplay on the other end of the line is paused. Now Hanzo has Genji’s full attention. “Alright, I think you will need to start this over. What, and who, are we talking about here?”

“It is about Jesse. I was cleaning off--”

“Jesse? Handsome-cat-rescuer Jesse? Mystery-man-at-the-bar Jesse? Desperate-man-crush-gardening Jesse?”

“It is not a desperate man-crush--”

“You are still seeing him! Have you asked him out yet? I want to meet him--”

“I should not have called you.”

“No, no, no! Come on, I am sorry, just excited. Okay, tell me what this is about.”

As Hanzo winds his way through the parallel aisles of the big-box grocery store, he does his best to explain the situation to his brother. There is some careful editing along the way, and Hanzo never says the exact dollar amounts he saw on the paperwork strewn about the dining table or the bill he clutches in his hand. Even if he thinks Genji and McCree will never speak or meet in person it just seems wrong to share that sort of thing. McCree would surely be angry if he knew.

Genji hums thoughtfully once Hanzo finishes. “That is a tough situation to be in.”

“I know. Which is why I was thinking I could take some money out of--”

“You cannot pay that bill for him.”

Hanzo pauses, glaring at the rows of cereal boxes in front of him. “Why not?”

His brother lets out a gusty sigh that sounds an awful lot like exasperation. “For one, it is none of your business. You only found out because you are a snoop that cannot keep his nose out of other people’s business.”

It takes all the restraint in Hanzo’s being not to rise to the bait. “Only this time.”

“Second, you are not some sort of non-profit charity or community action group. This comes off as pity.”

“I do not pity him! That is not what this is at all!”

“It does not matter what you think, it matters what he thinks. He is the one who has to live with it. Think of the man’s pride, Hanzo. You are telling me you would not feel the same?”

Exactly what Hanzo did not want to hear, but he does as asked. He considers McCree, strong and hard-working McCree who works two jobs and gives both everything he has. Dedicated McCree who goes out of his way to supply his neighbors with fresh produce from his garden even if he does not have enough left over for himself. Stubborn McCree who would never let on that he is struggling no matter how far down he gets because complaining about his troubles will not solve them.

“Kuso,” Hanzo mutters. He picks a brand of cereal that he remembers McCree had an empty box of in his cabinets. “I cannot just sit by and watch as he drowns, Genji.”

“What you are doing now is what he needs,” Genji replies. “Be a good friend. Help out where you can, and give him space when he wants it. If he asks for help, or if you offer and he accepts, that is fine, but for now this is enough.”

The advice is surprisingly solid and Hanzo kind of hates Genji for it. Sighing, Hanzo grabs a second box of cereal to go along with the first. This one with chocolate puff cereal instead of oats and bran. Something more indulgent. People like variety, after all. “I suppose.”

“This will be good for you, too,” Genji says. “You cannot just throw money at the problem. I mean, sure, you could, but this Jesse sounds like the type that would just get pissed off about it. Am I right?”

“What was that? Genji? Sorry, you are breaking up,” Hanzo says, calling out just loud enough to sound worried. “I think I am losing reception. I will call you back later.”

“Hanzo that has not worked on me in years--" 

Pressing the button to end the call, Hanzo huffs. He hates when Genji is right about something.

 

\---

 

The house is much the same as when Hanzo left, the only real difference being Udon’s change of position from the left side of the couch to the right. Before Hanzo goes back out to the car for the second load of groceries he slips the prosthetic bill back into the pile of papers on the counter.

 

\---

 

He can acknowledge that in most aspects of his life he is calm. In control. Cautious. He might make a risky power play in a business deal but not without a lot of forethought and planning, weighing the risks and rewards, always mindful of the consequences. Lately--today--all that seems to be flying out the window of McCree’s truck.

Changing the alarm on McCree’s clock was simple enough, any noise Hanzo might have made drowned out by the snores coming from the bed. He almost tried to urge the poor man onto his side because laying on his back was making McCree produce the deepest, most stuttery snores Hanzo has ever heard. But that risks McCree waking up and that would go against the whole point of sneaking in the first place. Hanzo does not quite fit into McCree’s work clothes; the shirt is a little baggy around the waist and long in the arms and the pants are too big all over. He has to cinch the belt tight and roll up both sleeves and pant legs so he does not look like a child playing dress-up. The hat with McCree’s Landscaping Service embroidered across the front helps him look less out of place in the clothes.

He tries not to think about wearing McCree’s clothes.

“Mertens, Mertens, where is...aha!” The greatest boon was finding McCree’s client book, a cheap spiral notepad in the letter holder on the kitchen wall. Names, addresses, phone numbers, and a short note describing what each client had paid for. This is the only way Hanzo could figure out where to go and what to do. He counts himself lucky that all that is needed is a simple lawn mowing and nothing fancy. The little doodle of a devil complete with horns and a pitchfork beside Mertens’ name does give cause for concern, though.

Hanzo is nervous, of course. The mower on the back of McCree’s trailer is rather advanced, with a lot of levers and extras and Hanzo is pretty sure it can rotate in place. McCree can get rather long-winded about mowers when given the opportunity. Nothing to worry about, though, nothing at all. Hanzo is an executive in a motor company, after all. He can do this.

This client, Mertens, has a nice enough yard but nothing about it appeals to Hanzo’s tastes. Too flash, too many features. A try-hard out to impress. Hanzo knows that McCree would not have chosen some of those flower combinations in the bed along the front walk.

When the man, whom Hanzo assumes is Mertens, comes power-walking down the driveway to greet Hanzo, he knows instantly that he hates him.

“And who are you?” Mertens asks before he even gets halfway up the drive. “Where is McCree? He should have been here fifteen minutes ago!”

What a prick. “Greetings,” Hanzo says without smiling. “Mr. McCree is unavailable today. I will be doing your yard work.”

Mertens puffs up like a self-important parakeet. “I didn’t pay for just anyone to come out and mow my lawn. McCree said he was a one-man crew, and that’s what I expect. Who are you?”

“Hanzo,” he replies, holding out his hand to the other man. If Mertens’ pathetic little squeeze is meant to be intimidation, he is sorely mistaken. Almost as sore as his hand after Hanzo is done with it. Maybe it is petty, but Hanzo has dealt with a thousand Mertens’ in his lifetime and if this is how he routinely speaks to McCree then he deserves to feel his bones grate. “I apologize,” he adds in a tone that indicates he is not at all sorry. “Mr. McCree has a personal emergency he needed to deal with. Next week he will be back to his regular schedule.”

Mertens blusters a moment, trying to hide shaking the feeling back into his hand. “A personal emergency? What could possibly be important enough to miss a special appointment? I’ve got guests coming into town tomorrow! I expect to get what I paid for, not his lackey assistant!”

Hanzo had lowered the tailgate of the trailer to start backing down the mower, but at Merten’s words he pauses to turn and give him a long look. “Very well,” he says, raising the gate and locking it back into place.

“What are you doing?” Mertens asks, indignant anger morphing into indignant confusion.

“Mr. McCree has a waiting list of people fighting to get on his schedule,” Hanzo explains, walking back around as if to get back in the truck. “If you do not have need of his services, I need to move on to his next client. I am sure you will find someone else that can meet your needs by tomorrow.”

Just as Hanzo expected, Mertens panics. “Wait! Wait, uh, I am sure you’ll be adequate!” His whole demeanor changes, relaxing like he is talking to just-one-of-the-guys and not a man he insulted not twenty seconds ago. He laughs awkwardly. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine! Just a little, hehe, miscommunication, yeah? Language barriers!”

Forcing a polite smile and a nod, Hanzo makes it his personal mission to one day destroy this man’s yard. He wonders if how much trouble he would get into if he paid someone to just pave the whole thing in asphalt.

 

\---

 

Hanzo knew he was cutting it too close. Between being unfamiliar with the equipment, the layout of Mertens’ yard, and just not having mown a lawn in years, he took too much time getting back. Pulling into McCree’s driveway he can see the lights on in the kitchen and a dark shadow moving behind the thin curtains. “Crap.”

Anxious dread wells up inside, and walking up to the front door feels like walking the plank if the pirate ship had a cute little bird feeder and flower boxes on the windows. He stomps his boots on the welcome mat before opening the screen door to step inside.

The first thing Hanzo thinks when he spots McCree is that the room feels so much smaller with him in it. Even curled over a cup of coffee the other man’s presence fills a room. The second is that at least McCree looks improved after his long day spent actually sleeping. The third thing, which maybe should have come before the first two, is that McCree has a terrifying face when he is not happy with you. “Welcome back,” McCree croaks, staring hard at him.

Figuring out just what emotions Hanzo is facing with is made harder by the fact that McCree sounds like a strangled frog. “You are mad.” Hanzo means it to come out as a statement of fact but there is the barest upturn at the end. At his feet both Soba and Udon appear to sniff curiously at his shoes and the fabric of his pants.

McCree tilts his head and Hanzo can see a shift in his jaw. “I ain’t right decided yet.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, I was,” McCree explains, setting his mug aside and gripping the counter behind him with both hands. “Wakin’ up to a cat chewin’ on my hair and a note that says you ran off with my truck and all my lawn equipment would make anybody mad.”

“Oh,” Hanzo repeats, the brief flare of hope dying out almost immediately. “McCree, I did not mean to--”

“Then, when I’m scramblin’ to get my stuff together, to get to my job that is my responsibility mind you, I get this voicemail,” he continues, not letting Hanzo derail the story. “From Mertens of all people, and I think to myself, well this is goin’ to be great. He ain’t exactly the friendliest of folks--”

“I noticed.”

McCree pauses to glare at him for the interruption and Hanzo bites his lip, salt on his tongue. “So I’m expectin’ one of his tirades, but wouldn’t you know it? He ain’t mad at all.”

Hanzo shifts in his borrowed boots, skin itchy from the bits of grass clinging to his skin in the air conditioning. “No?”

“No. He says he heard I had an emergency I had to tend to, and he hopes I’m doin’ fine, but mostly he talked about this fella Hanzo I hired and how his work is ‘adequate.’ Which, hell, that’s probably the highest compliment I’ve ever heard that man give.” McCree shakes his head in bewilderment at that. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing.” Hanzo straightens and removes the cap to try and soothe his messy hair into some semblance of control. “Men like that are common in my line of work. Full of self-importance, think the world revolves around them. I just...implied that you would not suffer if you were to lose his business. He quickly changed his tune.”

“You bluffed him?” McCree asks, incredulous.

Hanzo scoffs at that, like McCree is the one out of line. “It is not a bluff if it is true. You can easily find clients to fill that spot if you do not already have someone lined up. Your work speaks for itself.”

An open, blank look crosses McCree’s face, the comment clearly unexpected. But before he can even think about responding he doubles over, coughing hard into his hands. Long, deep coughs that rattle something wet inside his chest, coughs that make Hanzo’s own throat tingle and ache in sympathy. Hanzo kicks off his boots and treads across the clean floors to rub McCree’s back when the man cannot seem to catch his breath.

The words slip out before he can check them. “You really need to take a day off.”

McCree shoots him a glare over his shoulder, still hacking away. At least he covers his mouth. “I’ve heard that one before,” he gasps when he finally settles.

“It does not make it any less true.”

“I told you, I can’t miss work,” McCree says, pushing off the counter so he can sit at his place at the table. “I swear, don’t know why none of y’all can understand that.”

So Hanzo is not the only one arguing the point. Good. “It is not that we do not understand,” he says. His voice is getting sharp, stern, and he knows he should calm down and step back but his mouth does not listen. “But we cannot just sit by idly while you do this to yourself.”

“Do what?”

“Suffer for no reason.”

“I got a job to do. A man can’t just stay home for a little cold--”

“This is not a little cold!” Hanzo snaps, losing his composure completely. The skitter of cat claws on the floor as they flee barely registers. “You have the flu, or strep throat! If nothing else a severe sinus infection or hay fever--”

“I don’t have allergies,” McCree argues but Hanzo steamrolls right over that.

“--and by this point you have been sick so long you may well have pneumonia! Your chest sounds horrible! You should have seen a doctor weeks ago, not try to squeeze by on over-the-counters and-and--willpower!”

McCree’s snarls out, “I  _ can’t  _ miss work. I have to have a full paycheck. I got bills to pay--”

“I’ll pay them!” Hanzo blurts. Another stunned look from McCree as Hanzo advances over him. “I mean it! If it will get you to shut up, take some time off, and go see a real doctor I’ll pay whatever you need me to! Or, or, I’ll handle all your clients! If you can miss a day or two and survive on your lawn care clients, I’ll go. I did Mertens’ lawn, they can’t all be that bad. I’ll…” he trails off, face turning red at his own outburst. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

McCree stares up at him. “Why?” he asks, the syllable cracked and broken.

Perhaps Hanzo should have anticipated the question, but it comes as a surprise anyway. His mouth opens then clicks closed as his mind tries to verbalize. “I...I am not good at this,” he says, and yes, he really has lost all control of his mouth today.

“What?” McCree asks.

Hanzo swallows. “Words, for things like this. You--this is what people do, when they care, is it not?”

Before McCree can respond the timer on the oven goes off, drawing both their attention to the smell of baking cheese and bacon inside. Only now does Hanzo realize McCree must have put the casserole from this morning in the oven to heat. McCree makes to stand. “Go on and get a shower; you can’t be comfortable like that.” Hanzo makes it two steps before McCree adds, “Thank you.”

Taking the offered out while he can, Hanzo nods and retreats to the bathroom. He spends most of the shower berating himself for every stupid word that vomited out of his mouth over the past ten minutes. He is so awful at this. Too used to having people do what he asks at work, directly asking for help or money if they need it. Why do social interactions have to be so much more difficult? By the time he is clean and back in his own clothing he is convinced that he should quit while he is ahead--was ahead, damn his stupid mouth--and leave McCree alone like he obviously wants. He will be lucky if McCree so much as texts a friendly hello on holidays after this debacle.

And yet, when Hanzo emerges from the bathroom the table is set for two and McCree has Soba perched in his lap at the table, openly feeding him chunks of bacon from the pile of breakfast casserole on his plate. “He is not supposed to eat people food,” Hanzo reminds him, timid as he joins McCree at the table.

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” McCree replies, a blatant lie. He even picks up another little bite for Soba to nibble while ignoring Hanzo’s flat look. “That one ain’t too keen on me yet.”

Hanzo looks over at Udon, all the way across the room crouched in the doorway to the bedroom and staring at them all with disdain. “Udon takes some time to warm up.”

Soba hops down and the two men begin to eat, the awkward quiet quickly ended by McCree, never one to let a silence fester. “I do want to thank you, for what you did today.”

“It was nothing,” Hanzo says.

“Hell, Hanzo.” A rough laugh coughs out of McCree’s chest and he gestures with his fork. “This house ain’t been this clean since I moved in. What were you, a maid in a previous life?”

Hanzo risks a soft laugh of his own. “Good to know I have a fallback career.”

They look up at each other and McCree offers a reluctant smile. “I am willin’ to admit you might have a point, about the doctor thing.”

“Might?”

“Shut up, I’m tryin’ to meet you halfway here.” Hanzo presses his lips together firmly, fighting his own amusement, and McCree continues, “Thought I could shake this thing, but the cough won’t go away and it just gets worse in the heat. So if it will get you and Reinhardt and Ana and Gabe and Fareeha off my back, then I’ll go to the clinic in the morning.” He lets out a crackly sigh. “And, I can take one day off work. Just one, though, I’m tryin’ to rack up some PTO money. If we don’t use a certain percentage of our hours by the new year they have to pay it out as a bonus.”

Ah, the truth comes out. Hanzo cannot really blame him for that, even if he wants to. “What about your clients tomorrow?”

Here McCree looks down at his plate to scoop a huge forkful into his mouth, shaking his head. “Not sure,” he mumbles. He glances up at Hanzo and swallows with a wince. “If--and this is a big if--but if I was to ask you to help, would that...be okay?”

“You know it would be okay.”

The way McCree’s shoulders slump with relief, Hanzo would swear an actual weight was lifted off the other man. He reaches across the table and presses his hand over Hanzo’s wrist, promptly shorting out his brain. “Thank you, you don’t know--just, thanks. It means a lot.”

Later, Hanzo will berate himself for not twisting his hand then and twining his fingers with McCree’s own. “You are welcome.”

One more squeeze and the pressure is gone, McCree’s attention grabbed by a pair of eyes and ears peeking over the back of the couch. Udon has crept over from his place near the bedroom door, probably jealousy over Soba getting food and attention over him. In a blatant disregard of Hanzo’s warning, he pinches another bite of food from his plate and holds it out for the reluctant cat. “And I promise I won’t make a habit of asking.”

Hanzo smirks. “You would have to change the name to Shimada and McCree’s Lawn Care.”

“McCree and Shimada’s,” McCree argues. Then he tilts his head. “That don’t have a bad ring to it, actually.”

“Shimada and McCree’s sounds better,” Hanzo argues, kicking gently with his foot.

“Best stick with McCree, then,” he grins. “Oh, and tomorrow is a pretty light day. Just weedin’ this one lady’s garden and putting out some mulch at Golden Acres.”

“Golden Acres...the retirement home?”

McCree shrugs. “Old people got lawns, too.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“If you need help, I can come along. We could work together--”

“No, really, I can handle it,” he insists. “It cannot be that difficult, and you need to stay out of the pollen as much as you can.”

“I told you, I don’t have allergies,” McCree says again, stubborn to the last. That is fine, Hanzo would rather he be contrary about this than decide to go out by himself or go to work.

Speaking of. “Do you need to call in?” 

McCree startles and lurches to his feet. “Aw, shit, good call. Give me just a--"

“Go on, I can get the dishes,” Hanzo says, collecting their plates. “What are a few more after today?”

He hears an overly-enthusiastic thank you as McCree retreats to the bedroom that makes Hanzo laugh. Eavesdropping on a phone call in this house is easy enough with the walls as thin as they are, and Hanzo listens to McCree easily get the time off. Hanzo is pretty sure that getting time off at the mill is not nearly as difficult as McCree makes it out to be. Stubborn pride, indeed. 

McCree comes back noticeably happier and that only multiplies when he sees Hanzo opening a familiar box of pastries. “Zebra cakes?”

“You mentioned you liked them,” Hanzo says, tossing McCree a package of two.

“You bought me zebra cakes,” McCree coos, tearing into them with gusto. “Are you sure this is just you being nice? You’re not dying are you?” He blinks up at Hanzo. “ _ I’m _ not dying, am I?”

“So dramatic,” Hanzo huffs, stealing one of McCree’s cakes rather than opening another pack. “A lot of fuss over a treat. You’re sick, I should have fed you applesauce.”

McCree whines playfully. “No! This is good!”

Hanzo shoves him toward the couch. “Just let me get the last basket of laundry from the back and I’ll join you.”

As Hanzo walks through the house he can hear McCree call, “You did my laundry too?! Hanzo, spare my dignity, tell me you didn’t touch my dirty underwear!”

Hanzo might have answered had he not shoved half the zebra cake in his mouth. Honestly, he has not had one in years and he forgot how delightful the little pastries are. Why did he stop buying these? He makes a mental note to buy some next time he goes to the store.

The floorboards creak and of course McCree did not listen, instead following him out to the back porch. “You did,” he despairs, trying to edge in to keep Hanzo from getting the laundry out of the dryer. “Oh my God, you cleaned my underwear, God, I’m never gonna be able to face you again--”

“Would you let me finish this,” Hanzo laughs, hip-checking him out of the way.

“How am I goin’ to pay you back for this? You do a man’s laundry you owe him for life.”

“I ate one of your zebra cakes, that is payment enough,” Hanzo says, popping the rest of the cake into his mouth. He does not know why McCree is making such a fuss, it is not like his underwear was grosser than his own after working outside. Though he is going to find the opportunity to tease him about the boxers with polar bears all over them.

“No, no, I can’t let this go unanswered, Hanzo! Please, come on. Let me do somethin’ for you.”

Hanzo closes the dryer door and hefts the basket onto his hip before looking up at McCree. He is finally starting to realize that a man like McCree puts a lot of stock in paying off his debts, no matter how much it is not necessary. “Very well,” Hanzo says. “I have a proposition.”

McCree gives him a lazy smile. Those bedroom eyes make Hanzo’s stomach flip. The effect is a bit ruined when McCree sucks in air hard through the congestion in his nose, though. “What’s that, sug?”

“When you are better and no longer running yourself ragged, you will take me to this target range you keep telling me about.”

“I was already goin’ to do that anyway,” McCree says.

“And,” Hanzo clarifies, “you cannot make fun of archery or the bow and arrow the entire time.”

“Aww, come on, darlin’! That’s half the fun!”

Hanzo skirts around him and puts the basket on the floor by the closet. Nothing in there needs to be hung up or folded immediately. “Take it or leave it, Jesse, those are my terms.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mister Shimada,” McCree teases, touching Hanzo’s back briefly as they walk back toward the living room.

Hanzo ignores how the touch makes him shiver.

An hour later finds the two of them curled up on opposite ends of the couch, each with a cat lounging in their laps. The couch is too small for them to sit without touching, and it ends up being easier to just share the thin blanket rather than work out the logistics of two. McCree blinks lazily at the prime time television that he never gets to watch and pets Soba’s belly. 

Hanzo discreetly pulls out his phone and shoots of an email to the office letting them know he will not be in tomorrow. It will probably cause a bit of a stir; as much as he has hounded McCree over taking time off, Hanzo is hardly any better. A hypocrite, but McCree does not need to know that.

Beside him, McCree begins to nod off, head tipping to the side to rest on the couch cushion. Now that his guard is down Udon eases out of Hanzo’s lap and over onto McCree’s thigh. Hopefully the do not start a fight over sitting-rights. Hanzo smiles; maybe he cannot just sweep in and make all of McCree’s problems go away, but he can sure try.


	5. Schlumbergera and Sage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! It's been a while, I know, but I am back!
> 
> Had a whirlwind last few months filled with real life stuff. The bro got married (which was a ten chapter ordeal all on its own, let's just say this had better be my one and only stint as a wedding coordinator), my dad had surgery, and I've been unexpectedly working on the back-end of a zine! And, as usual, my own health is the ever-constant jerk that keeps butting into my business and making things difficult. I've got a surgery next week, so I busted my butt to get this chapter out before then!
> 
> To make up for the long wait I decided to give you a nice double-dose and hand down a hefty chapter. I hope you guys like it, and gear up for the next one, because this is the one I'm really excited about. Time to get this plot moving!

“That’s when I hear the guy in lane eight call for an RSO. And I look and I see eight all up in the face of the squirrely looking guy that came in with the bear on lane ten. I’m like, hell, what now? So I make my way down the firing line and ask what’s this commotion all about. Lane eight is all fired up, turning red in the face. He says this guy has been hovering around behind him brass scavenging!”

“Mmm.”

“Brass scavenging! At my firing range! That might fly at these podunk redneck ranges but I run a fine establishment. You either ask the shooter if his brass is up for grabs or you leave him the hell alone. You don’t just steal right out from under his feet!”

“Mmm.”

“So I turn on the guy, right, and I ask if that’s true, and he says no--not only that, calls eight a liar. And a few other things I won’t mention; a child could cuss more creatively than that punk. But yeah, he’s all blustering but keeping his hands in those hoodie pockets and they looked awful full if you get my drift.”

“Mmhm.”

“...then I grab him by the arm and a million dollars falls out of his pockets. But it was a million dollars in pennies. Took me three days to pick them all up. Now I’m a millionaire; planning on selling this place and moving out west. Maybe opening a koala ranch.”

“Mmhm--OW!” Jesse’s head bounces forward with the strength of the slap to the back of his skull, enough so that his hat tips into his face. He jerks the leather back into place and glares across the counter. “What was that for?!”

Gabe glares right back. “My story not interesting enough for you?”

Furrowing his brows, Jesse’s brain scrambles to remember what they were talking about and comes up empty. He turns sheepish. “Sorry, Gabe, guess my mind wandered. What was it you were sayin’? Somethin’ ‘bout a brass rat?”

“Forget that. What’s got you all distracted?” Gabe asks, going back to repairing the gun disassembled on the counter between them. Or, judging by the number of parts strewn about before him, guns. There are at least three barrels and and five stocks and they seem to be lain out in some sort of order only known to Gabe.

Jesse takes a quick glance at the ever-growing pile and pulls the pieces of Peacekeeper a little further away from the mess. “Nothin’.”

“‘Nothin’,’ my ass,” Gabe replies. He picks up a bronze bore brush and points it at Jesse. “You’re gone from the range all summer, you don’t call, you hardly text. You’re seeing another gun range, aren’t you? Go on, you can tell me, break up with me to my face.”

A grin cracks over Jesse’s face as he goes back to oiling Peacekeeper with a soft cloth. “Yeah, Gabe, that’s what it is. I’m seein’ a pretty little firin’ range down off the highway. Got the biggest set of targets you’ve ever seen.”

Gabe rolls his eyes and ignores that. “And then, when you finally drag your sorry ass back for forgiveness, you start acting all cagey like there’s somewhere else you need to be. Hell, it’s seven in the evening; I know damn well you’re usually still asleep on your day off.” The faint amusement drops off his face completely and he gives Jesse an intense look. “Shit. You didn’t lose your job, did you?”

“No! Jesus, Gabe, I’m doin’ fine. Really.” From the range proper comes a series of gunshots in quick succession, only muffled by distance and the concrete wall that separates it from the front shop. There were several customers in the store when Jesse arrived but now there is only the one left, a regular that Jesse always acknowledges with a polite nod. He waits until the echoes stop and the range falls silent again before continuing. “Stop thinking worst-case scenarios at me.”

Mollified that Jesse is not about to ask him for work, Gabe’s shoulders relax. “Alright, then what gives? We both know this isn’t your usual range-time, and you’ve been watching the door and the clock for the better part of an hour. Something’s up. Spill.”

Jesse glances up at Gabe. The other man gives him the sort of focused laser-gaze that Jesse is sure once turned many a fine soldier into a quivering pile of fear. Luckily Jesse has had years to adjust to that fixed stare in its many iterations, so he knows it comes from a place of love. Scary but protective love. “Alright,” he allows. “I’m meeting someone here and he’s late.”

“Oh.” Gabe blinks. “Why didn’t you just say so? I could’ve set out some my top dollar merchandise.” He leans on an elbow. “They gullible? Think I can sell them on something? I’ve got a nice Ruger that needs a new home.”

“He might be a hard sale, Gabe,” Jesse laughs.

The older man sighs and shrugs, going back to work. “So who is he? Date?”

Jesse curbs the instinct to get snippy; it is not like this would be the first time he brought a date to the range. “Nah. Friend of mine, you don’t know him.” His hands go back to assembling Peacekeeper by rote, the motions so familiar he could complete the task blindfolded and concussed. “Helped me out a time or two so I promised to show him the range.”

A sly smirk crosses Gabe’s features. “This wouldn’t be the Hanzo I keep hearing about, would it?”

Jesse’s hands falter and he drops the hammer spring, eyes jumping back to Gabe’s face. “How do you know about Hanzo?”

“Fareeha told me.”

“Fareeha?” Well, that makes even less sense. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? Fareeha doesn’t know him.”

Gabe laughs at Jesse’s frown, which is just typical. “Reinhardt told Ana, and Ana told Fareeha, and Fareeha told me last time she was in. You know, she comes to see me at least once a week, unlike some ungrateful children I could name.”

“She always had a stronger stomach than the rest of us--” Jesse gets cut off when he has to duck under another swat from Gabe’s hand.

“Brat.” In a series of quick motions Gabe suddenly has a Ruger cleaned and reassembled in his hands. He grabs a sticker and places both in the safety-glass case of the counter before starting on the next. “So, ‘Big Gay Crush,’ as Reinhardt says…”

“I am going to kill him,” Jesse mutters to himself, putting the last parts of Peacekeeper in place with a click and wiping down any excess oil. 

“Been a long time since you brought a date to the range. Must be awful special. What’s his weapon of choice? He a shotgun man?” Gabe asks, grinning. “Don’t tell me he’s one of those Glock guys. Remember, I won’t tolerate bad form. No sideways-gangster shooting on my range.”

“He’s not a date,” Jesse says firmly, cleaning up his supplies and putting them back in their case. “And he’s, uh. Well, he’s more into…” He braces himself for the fallout. “...Archery.”

As expected, Gabe pulls a grimace. “Aw, Jesse, really?”

“And I promised I wouldn’t give him shit about it, so you better not neither,” he adds, shooting Gabe a look that says he means business. As usual, Gabe is unfazed.

“Just because you promised doesn’t mean I have to. Don’t tell me he’s one of them high-society trust-fund babies. Got a bow from his parents for his birthday and shows it off in a nice shiny case. He isn’t carrying this thing around not knowing how to fire it, is he?”

“Hanzo isn’t like that,” Jesse says dismissively. Not that Jesse has ever seen Hanzo firing his bow, of course. But the way Hanzo talks about it, the passion he has about his hobbies, Jesse cannot imagine him as someone that just picked up the bow for laughs. No, the way Hanzo talks about archery is a lot like Jesse talks about his own interest in firearms.

Over his shoulder the front door opens with a faint rush of displaced air accompanied by a flat doorbell tone. He gets the barest glance of Hanzo and a burst of warmth in his chest before turning back to Gabe to hiss, “Be nice, or I’ll seed your lawn with crabgrass!”

Gabe looks stricken, hand to his chest. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Jesse does not pause to figure out if Gabe is being sarcastic or not, opting instead to go and greet Hanzo. “Howdy there, Hanzo!” 

Hanzo is still in his nice work clothes and his hair is partially falling out of its tie, a result of the wind that has been gusting all day, damn hurricane season. The contrast between the expensive suit and the scuffed-up bowcase and quiver slung across his back is unexpected. Jesse wishes the combination did not look as good as it does. But as nice a picture he makes, Hanzo also looks lost standing on the rug before the door, like he is debating turning around and heading right back to his car.

At Jesse’s exclamation, Hanzo catches sight of him and smiles, some of the worry fading from his expression. He fidgets with the strap of his gear on his shoulder. “I apologize for being so late; something came up at work.”

“Everything okay?”

Irritation flicks briefly across Hanzo’s features before he forces a smile that does not quite reach his eyes. “Nothing to worry about.”

“You sure?” Jesse asks. He sucks in a breath to further press but Hanzo just shakes his head.

“It is fine. I am just glad I got here before they closed?”

Willing to let it drop for now, Jesse nods. “Ah, yeah, no need to worry about that. Gabe’s hours are more like suggestions. You found the place okay?”

Hanzo’s lips quirk up on the ends, a not-quite smile. “The demonic-looking barn owls and the giant sign reading  _ Hellfire Shooting Gallery  _ were hard to miss.”

“What can I say? Gabe’s got a flair for the dramatic.” 

Dramatic is one word for it. Between the massive sign out front and the bold paint choices, Hellfire Shooting Gallery is indeed hard to miss. Jesse’s eyes pass over the garish details without thought now, but when Gabe was designing this place some ten years ago he may have gotten a bit out-of-hand with the theme. Clearly Hanzo is in agreement if the way his wide eyes take in the inner decor is any indication. His poor eyes are probably saturated from the high contrast of black, white, and red over everything that isn’t a product. If he is intimidated he does not mention it and rallies as best he can, turning back to Jesse and smiling again. There is something to the expression that seems off, but Jesse cannot quite place it. “I was expecting something more like the O.K. Corral. Something befitting a cowboy such as yourself.”

“Hey, now, don’t you start teasin’ me about my hat again,” Jesse chuckles, leading him through the store.

“I would not need to if your hat were not so ridiculous.”

Hanzo goes quiet as they approach the counter, and Jesse can see why. Gabe cuts a daunting figure with his tight black shirt and crossed arms showing off his biceps, scarred-up face set hard and eyes piercing. Not the way he greets his normal customers unless they come in acting like utter nitwits. Or as one of his or Fareeha’s dates. Jesse tries for a charming smile. “Hanzo Shimada, Gabriel Reyes. Don’t worry, his bark’s worse than his bite.”

“That’s just what I want you to believe,” Gabe counters, offering a hand out that Hanzo shakes dutifully. “Welcome. I won’t give you the new-customer talk, just make sure you follow the rules.” He nods toward the large painted sign over the doorway to the range that lists the rules and etiquette for the shooting gallery. “You been to a firing range before?”

“Yes, many times,” Hanzo replies, eyes skimming the rules before looking back at Gabe. “I usually go to the Riverside Archery and Rifle Club, down in Mint Hill?”

Gabe’s gaze flicks to Jesse’s for a brief moment as if to say  _ told you so.  _ “I’m familiar with it. Private club. Very fancy.”

Hanzo shrugs, neither confirming or denying, and takes in the assortment of weaponry on the walls and tucked beneath the glass counter. “I take it you do not get many archers?”

“Mostly kids who want to play Robin Hood,” Gabe replies. “They usually give up by high school.”

The shorter man gives a quiet laugh and nods like that is what he expected. “I can tell from the limited selection,” Hanzo says. There are three bows on display off to the side, not prominently displayed at all. Only one of them is made for an adult, the other two laughably tiny and one of them a bright pink. Besides that the only archery-specific gear that is plainly visible is the open tube of assorted arrows leaning against the back cabinets. 

Gabe frowns and shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Can’t waste inventory space on gear that’ll never get sold,” he offers, but Jesse can tell that it bothers Gabe. People can come in the shop and complain about everything, up to and including Gabe himself, but few people find fault with his stock. “Maybe if I had more archers dropping by.”

“I might have to consider it,” Hanzo agrees amicably, sharing a look with Jesse. “Depends on if Jesse is half as good as he claims to be. I came down for some friendly competition, not to watch you waste ammo missing the board.”

“Like you’re one to talk. For all I know you’ll have Gabe digging arrows out of the ceiling,” Jesse laughs, using his elbow to nudge Hanzo’s shoulder.

Hanzo scoffs, pushing back. “I’ll be digging them out of your hat if you are not careful.”   


“Again with my hat! Lay off, I only got the one!”

He turns back to find Gabe hastily hiding a smirk. Clearing his throat, he motions at the case on Hanzo’s shoulder. “Alright, let’s see your weapon. And you got permits, right?”

“Of course,” Hanzo says, placing the case on the counter.

Jesse does not know much about archery. Sure, when Hanzo brought up he was a marksman and it became clear that this was more than just some passing interest, Jesse looked up a few things. He has always held the belief that you should at least try to learn a little bit about your friend’s interests, if for no other reason than to show your support of them. Besides, he has the internet in his pocket, what else was he going to do on his breaks? In his quest to learn a bit about archery, what Jesse discovered was that it is way more complicated than it looks, that the wind was a hell of alot more important than it had any right to be, and that mounted archery was a thing and provides some of the coolest pictures he has seen on Google Images.

As such, when Hanzo opens his case to reveal the compound bow inside, Jesse shows an acceptable amount of interest in the weapon. He knows enough to know this is not some off-the-shelf bow that anyone could pick up and learn on. Hell, it even has these weird loopy wheels on the ends, and what is that about? The bow looks custom, black and navy with matte gold accents. A lot of love and care went into this weapon, just like Peacekeeper. He wonders if Hanzo has a name for his bow.

By contrast, Gabe looks impressed in a much more informed way. The two suddenly launch into a discussion about the bow but Jesse only catches every few words and understands even less. Hanzo says something about draw length ranges and peak draw weights and pulling force and Gabe says something about ATA and IBO speeds and limb bolt turns, rounds and ends and creep and it is really all too much. Jesse has not been more confused in a shooting range since his first time stepping inside one. 

They go on so long that Jesse briefly considers abandoning the two and heading out to the range himself when the other lone customer emerges with his gear. Gabe snaps quickly into customer service mode and waves Hanzo and Jesse on while he deals with the cash register. “Well, color me surprised,” Jesse says once they are out of the storefront. “I’ve never seen Gabe go on about bows like that. Didn’t know he knew anything about them.”

“He knows more than some of the riflemen at my range,” Hanzo comments. He follows Jesse down the line toward the end stations. “You looked out of your element. I told you it was not as simple as draw and fire.”

Jesse shoots him a sharp look. “You mean not as simple as firearms, is what I’m hearin’.”

“No, no, now you are just putting words in my mouth.” There is a slight pause, then, “But now that you mention it…”

“Alright, you,” Jesse laughs, stopping at the last two stations in the line. At the far end is a set of paper targets that he normally uses, cheap and easy to transport. In the other lane Jesse set up an archery block for Hanzo to use. He was surprised Gabe even had one in the back storage room. “Hope that’s an alright distance, I wasn’t sure what you need.”

“It is closer than I am used to, but it will do,” Hanzo says, getting out his bow and adjusting the tightness of the string. “I saw they have outdoor ranges in the back?”

Jesse loads Peacekeeper as they talk. “Yeah. He’s just keeping ‘em closed with it as stormy as it’s been. Some people don’t act like they have any sense when the weather gets bad.” He glances around the partition between them and nearly does a spit-take. “What are you doing?”

Hanzo shucks his crisp blue dress shirt and tie to the side, revealing a white sleeveless undershirt beneath and nothing else. Muscled shoulders roll in a shrug. “I cannot shoot properly with sleeves that tight. Archery requires freedom of movement.”

“Freedom of movement,” Jesse parrots. That is all he can do for a long moment, because his attention is wholly consumed by the stretches of exposed skin and the curves of defined muscle of Hanzo’s arms. Christ Almighty, the man must spend hours in the gym each week. And the tattoo! He knew Hanzo had one and has seen it up to the crook of his elbow, as far as rolling up a shirt sleeve can go. Now Jesse can see most of the blue dragon in all its glory and it is a thing of beauty. Jesse wants to taste it.

These thoughts are the way to madness. Jesse tears his eyes away and double-checks the safety on Peacekeeper. “I bet we can swing one of those t-shirts in the shop for you, if you want something.” Even though Jesse would really prefer Hanzo stay in the tank top, or even less. But Hanzo covering up would at least spare Jesse’s sanity.

“This will be fine. Usually I wear a traditional kyudo-gi when I practice, but I was not sure if that would be, ah, acceptable, here.” The hesitation has Jesse looking back and meeting Hanzo’s gaze. There is reluctance in his eyes, almost as if he is bracing for there to be an issue.

This is one thing that continuously rubs Jesse the wrong way. He can tell there must have been things said to Hanzo about his heritage that brought about these reactions. Things that make Hanzo assume the worst when it comes to meeting new people. Maybe it was one big incident, or a lot of little ones, but somewhere along the way someone hurt Hanzo. How Jesse hates it.

“Gabe doesn’t tolerate any sort of discrimination at his range,” Jesse says. He tips his hat toward Hanzo and waits until the other man meets his gaze and can be sure of his sincerity. “I don’t tolerate it, either. In case that ain’t obvious.”

The hard line of Hanzo’s shoulders eases and Hanzo flashes a small, grateful smile. “No, I know. I am just...careful. Thank you.”

“No need to thank someone for bein’ decent,” Jesse dismisses. “That don’t mean I won’t make fun of you when you miss a shot.”

Hanzo steps up to the firing line, quiver on his back. “Same for you, cowboy.”

They fall into pleasant small talk after that as they set to practicing. Normally Jesse would show off a little; he knows himself. Lord knows when he was a younger man he was the most arrogant kid on the range, comfortable and cocksure, flaunting his skill every chance he could. But he is older now, wiser--though Gabe would debate that one--and this feels different. He does not feel the burn to be the best with Hanzo here. There is the subtle press to be better, for improvement, to impress, but it is easy-going and without pressure. Jesse finds he quite enjoys it.

Plus, Hanzo is an amazing shot. Jesse does not need to know a thing about archery to see it. There is a confidence to Hanzo’s form, each movement calculated but fluid, no breath wasted. Jesse finds himself stepping back to watch the other man aim and fire more and more, until he finds himself sitting on the bench and just watching. Hanzo is mesmerizing.

Still, as they take turns with the targets, a thought nags at the back of Jesse’s mind. There is something off about Hanzo today. They usually let their conversations lead to where they will, but Hanzo has been steering the discussion not-so-subtly away from himself. His smile feels forced, his mind elsewhere. Jesse can see strain around his eyes. 

And then, as soon as it seems like Hanzo is starting to relax, his phone rings loud and obtrusive from his pocket. Jesse would have to be blind to miss the way Hanzo seizes with tension or the anger in his hands when he jabs his thumb at the screen to silence the call. “Work?” Jesse asks, watching Hanzo carefully as he tosses his phone down into the open bow case.

Hanzo makes a noise that says little. The hard set of his jaw says a lot more. He steps back to the firing line and draws another arrow. Just as he pulls the string back his phone goes off again. His knuckles turn white on the grip. 

Without prompting, Jesse swoops down and grabs the phone. He reads  _ Father  _ in neat font but rather than sliding to answer he clicks the phone to silent. “Want to talk about it?” Nothing answers him at first but the harsh  _ thunk  _ of an arrow imbedding itself in the target across the room. Hanzo draws another so Jesse presses, “Might make you feel better.”

“It is stupid,” Hanzo replies, hands moving to fire another arrow.

Jesse chuckles. “I find most things in life are stupid once you give it enough thought.” Another twang of the bow string, another hole in the mark. “Besides, bitchin’ about life is why most people come here to shoot. Let off some steam.” Hanzo prepares to fire again so Jesse pushes just a little further. “C’mon, ain’t nobody around but me. Let it out. I know you got it in you.”

Everything pauses, Hanzo poised in position, muscles tight, the bowstring drawn. Potential energy. Tension in the air. Then Hanzo’s gaze drops along with his arms and it all comes pouring out. “The staff has been working like mad to get our numbers up. Three months, three new products. A dozen innovations in research and development. Three months of working late and on the weekends and flying back and forth across the country to work deals and check on our factories. And you know what it got us? Point-one percent increase. A square on a spreadsheet got just one shade of green darker.”

He turns and starts to pace, bow in one hand while the other gestures angrily. “But administrative costs went up, which I have been wanting to address for over a year but that keeps getting pushed aside. No time, no time for streamlining, no time for efficiency, let us just keep doing as we always have, because that works! And we had that legal trouble in July, which put a strain on everybody. Have to tread carefully, have to be careful what you say and who you say it to. So a different square on a spreadsheet went from-from green to lighter green, so suddenly all our work is just not good enough! Now there is hell to pay, and my father is calling for a dozen people to be fired who did nothing wrong--maybe even closing down an entire project and dropping the whole team, people we just hired! Some of them relocated just for this! And I have been trying to squeeze every drop out of the budget to make things work, and all the while Genji is who-knows-where doing who-knows-what, blowing off a quarterly meeting with a year’s worth of paperwork in the backseat of his car!”

The bow gets dropped none-too-gently on its case. Jesse is sure that under normal circumstances Hanzo would never treat his weapon so poorly. He throws both hands in the air, waving at the himself. “And somehow-- _ somehow _ \--this is all my fault! I should have known that the market would have a dip in August. I should have anticipated that there would be a problem with legal. All these problems! I should have convinced Genji to--”

“Hey, hey, whoa now,” Jesse says, catching Hanzo’s wrist when it swings a little too close to Jesse’s head. He uses the momentum to steer Hanzo onto the bench opposite him, ignoring the irritated look on his face and the way he pulls his hand free once he sits. “Easy, darlin’. Let’s take a deep breath.”

“God,” Hanzo huffs, scrubbing his hands over his face and pressing his palms against his closed eyes. Frustration coats every syllable. “I am sorry. Between this and--and everything else, it has just been building up and--”

“You wanted to explode. Gotcha.” Jesse wants to ask about that  _ everything else  _ but refrains. One thing at a time. “Sounds like a lot of pressure to be under.”

“It is stupid. Especially after you--” Hanzo bites off the words, eyes flying up to Jesse’s. “I apologize. Here I am complaining to you when you just worked yourself ragged all summer--”

Jesse clicks with his tongue against his teeth. “Naw, it ain’t like that. Work’s rough no matter what kind it is. This ain’t a dick measurin’ contest.” His mouth stretches into a suggestive smirk. “I know you wanted some friendly competition, but that sort of thing isn’t for the range.”

The joke does the trick; a shocked laugh gets knocked from Hanzo’s lungs, and he shakes his head. “No, I do not think Reyes would appreciate that.” His smile fades and he looks down at his hands hanging listlessly between his knees. “Things have just been stressful lately, is all. I am sure it will get better. I am sorry to bring down the mood.”

“You’re quite alright, darlin’,” Jesse insists. He does not like the flat, lifeless tone with which Hanzo delivers the words. “There anything I can do to help?”

Hanzo shakes his head. “No. Thank you for offering, but--this is enough.” He smiles, tone lightening. “We should get back to what we came for, yes? I would like to move the target back to be equal with yours. We can make a sport of it.”

As Hanzo gets to his feet to retrieve his bow, Jesse watches the way Hanzo’s midnight hair falls down to obscure his features. Just as well. The smile had been fake anyway.

\---

Traditionally, Jesse has had a bad run of luck with Thanksgiving. The holiday is great, of course, if you can ignore the history steeped in racism and land appropriation, or the fact that far too many people are more concerned with the following Black Friday. As a red-blooded American Jesse is as much a fan of a good deal as the next guy, but ravenous middle-class mothers are a terror he would rather avoid.

His maternal grandmother died on Thanksgiving. He has vague memories of that day, he and his mother and grandmother gathered around their meager meal. His mother had asked what he was thankful for, and he does not remember what he said but whatever childish words came out of his mouth had made his mother laugh. An hour later their apartment was filled with first responders and his grandmother was dead. He was too young to really grasp the gravity of the situation, but her death would forever leave a stain of grief on the holiday that would fade with time but never be completely gone. In the following years his mother would sometimes attempt a meal but she could not bear to see the empty seats at a the table. That last year together they let the day pass by without acknowledgement.

Then Jesse was on his own and Thanksgiving dinner-for-one is a depressing affair, and he certainly was not about to splurge on that much food just for himself. He made it a point to pick up the slack at whatever job he was working at the time; there plenty of hours to work while his co-workers were on vacation, and holiday pay meant one less bill payment he had to worry about.

Eventually Ana and Gabe cottoned onto the fact that he was avoiding the holiday, and they put an end to him volunteering to work on Thanksgiving. Now his presence at the Amari household is an agreement so iron-clad that he would rather face down a hundred Black Fridays than break. Ana’s wrath would likely put a crowd of deal-hungry shoppers to shame.

Other than all the emotional baggage, Jesse’s bad luck also manifests in other ways. For some reason on the third Thursday of November he is forever destined to spill something on his shirt, or drop a casserole dish in the driveway, or burn his finger on the stove. And, despite his best efforts, the universe will come together to ensure that he will always be the last one to arrive, and late. Such is his curse.

The curse lingers in the back of his mind as he takes the next exit off the interstate and follows his GPS through increasingly nicer neighborhoods on the north side of Charlotte. He is due at the Amari’s in a few hours and, true to form, he is already behind schedule for the day. Adding in this extra trip might end up being his downfall.

Jesse takes a left into a heavily wooded development with a stylized stone sign off the main road. Each home looks more impressive than the last, arranged so perfectly that he half-doubts people actually live in them. When his GPS announces his destination he turns into a short drive, and Jesse immediately knows he is in the right place. The plants growing around the two-story colonial are just as nice as all the others in the neighborhood but the walkways are lined with an abundance of snapdragons and Russian sage. Jesse remembers Hanzo expounding on his newfound love of both over the summer and how shocked he was at the amount he could produce with minimal seeding. The evidence of Hanzo going crazy with a watering can is growing in every spare inch of the flower gardens growing around the house.

Hanzo’s sleek black car is still parked in the driveway, and Jesse sighs in relief as he unbuckles his seatbelt. He caught the man before he left for his family dinner. Straightening his nice flannel shirt, Jesse gathers the plant that had been riding shotgun in the passenger seat and heads for the front door.

The man even has a fall wreath of wheat stalks and dried maple leaves hanging on the front door. Jesse would bet they came from the tree he caught a glimpse of in the back yard. Pinterest moms have nothing on Hanzo.

Rings one and two are met unanswered. All he can hear is the distant sound of a too-big pickup on the road and silence. Jesse begins to grow worried. Hanzo’s car is here, and he knows the other man would not have been picked up by anyone else; whatever relationship he has with his family does not seem to preclude getting rides from one another. What if something happened? What if Hanzo is injured just inside the door?

_ Don’t be an idiot _ , he thinks, ringing the bell one more time. No use getting worked up over nothing. If Hanzo does not answer he is just not there, simple as that. Jesse will just have to leave the gift on the front porch and send him a text so he will not miss it.

Seconds later movement catches Jesse’s eye. He glances down and sees a little furry face distorted through the textured windows lining the side of the door. “Hey there, Soba,” Jesse says, wiggling the fingers of his free hand.

Through the door a wailing meow starts up, familiar and loud even through the thick wood door. Jesse has to laugh; yes, he is in the right place.

He can tell Soba paces a few times in front of the door before the volume becomes more muffled, the cat going off through the house. Then, through the windows he can see movement coming down the stairs. Seems that ignoring the doorbell is a lot easier than ignoring Soba; Jesse knows from experience, after all. He takes a step or two back from the door as the deadbolt slides free.

The wide smile falls off Jesse’s face when he sees Hanzo.

The other man is a wreck. Messy hair and disheveled clothes register as secondary to Hanzo’s face. His cheeks and nose are stained an angry, blotchy pink, the sort of distress that only comes from heavy breathing. The skin around his eyes is almost red from friction and the contrast makes his eyes stand out bright by comparison. They look startlingly beautiful like this--a thought Jesse will ponder much later, when there are less pressing matters than finding a crying Hanzo Shimada.

“Hanzo? Shit, Hanzo, what happened?” Jesse asks, putting the pot down and moving forward automatically, his mind coming up with a dozen worst-case scenarios on the spot.

Hanzo dashes at the few tears left on his face, tries to play things off. “What? No, nothing, everything is fine!” He plasters on a smile that is even more fake than the facade at the practice range, and he tries valiantly to sound normal despite the tremor in his voice. “What are you doing here?” Even as he speaks, Hanzo’s mask cracks. Both arms wrap around himself, hands gripping the opposite biceps tight as if that is the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Maybe it is. 

“Hanzo,” Jesse tries, softly. “What is it?” Tears gather in Hanzo’s eyes faster than he can control them and then Hanzo’s pressing both hands to his face. That is all the prompting Jesse needs to close the distance between them and wrap his arms around Hanzo, kicking the door shut as he goes. “Hey, hey, hey, no, I’m sorry, shh! I didn’t mean to make you cry--”

“I--I am sorry--I--” Hanzo stutters out before succumbing to a sob. Jesse can hear the tightness in his chest as he tries not to make embarrassing noises.

“You’re alright. Shh, shh now, you’re alright now,” Jesse murmurs. A quick glance over Hanzo’s shoulder to assess options has Jesse maneuvering the other man back toward the stairs. He just catches Udon and Soba perched at the top of the stairs, ears perked up and blue eyes wide as they watch the commotion from a safe distance. Hanzo slumps down onto one of the steps without much prompting so Jesse slots in next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. The stair is not really wide enough for two grown men to sit side-by-side, but they make do. “C’mon, take a few deep breaths. You’re goin’ to get yourself all worked up.”

Hanzo nods, eyes closed and face down. Taking Jesse’s advice, he makes a conscious effort to breathe slow. Jesse keeps the hand on Hanzo’s back moving in soothing circles, waiting him out while he gets ahold of himself. After a few minutes Hanzo inhales deeply and lets it all out in a hard gust. “Fuck,” he mutters before sitting up again to glance at Jesse. “I am sorry about that.”

“Not a problem.” Jesse watches Hanzo scrub his hands over his face again. “You want to talk about it?”

“It is stupid,” Hanzo mumbles, and there is that phrase again. Jesse is starting to notice a pattern. He watches Hanzo pinch the bridge of his nose and wonders if the gesture is from annoyance or if he is trying to stop another wave of emotion. Knowing Hanzo, probably both.

“Ain’t stupid if it’s got you this riled up,” Jesse reasons. Hanzo shoots him a look like he wants to argue, but Jesse does not give him a chance. “Try me. ‘Sides, you’ll feel better gettin’ it off your chest.”

Hanzo sits silent long enough that Jesse thinks they are just going to let the conversation lie for now, but Hanzo finally finds his voice. “My father and I had words,” he says, looking down at his hands between his knees. There is a pause, like Hanzo is debating if he can get away with saying just that, but he must sense Jesse waiting expectantly for more. “This morning, on the phone. I’m not even sure what started the argument...something about work. I can never remember how it started. But suddenly we were shouting at each other.”

His fingers clench together, an urge to move, to take his mind off the words coming out of his mouth. Jesse recognizes the tick from his own nervous fidgeting. “Everything I had done wrong at work, all the money I’ve cost him. Nevermind that I was doing exactly as he told me, but he keeps denying it, saying I did not listen when all I do is follow his word to the letter. And then he got personal. All the ways I waste my time, all the things I do and say wrong. I know he thinks he is helping, but--and sometimes he is right. There are things I could do better. I should be better. But it just feels like everything I do is wrong, no matter what I--and...and he said--” His throat clicks as he swallows. “He said I was a disappointment.”

Jesse’s breath catches, imperceptive. “He said that?” he asks. If Hanzo was in a better state of mind he might pick up on the dangerous note of that low drawl, but he is too far in his own head to hear it right now.

“It is not the first time,” Hanzo admits, and inside Jesse roars with rage. He has the urge to lash out at something, anything, anyone who would dare say something like that to Hanzo. To even think it. On the outside he simply draws Hanzo closer so their sides are pressed together tight. He has to fight not to squeeze the breath out of the other man as he continues. “Going into engineering instead of business, taking up archery instead of golf, my flowers, my--” He squeezes his knees through his slacks to cut off whatever treacherous thought almost slipped free. “Everything I have done is a disappointment.”

Jesse stares at the side of Hanzo’s head, hair in a frazzled mess, takes in the defeated slump of Hanzo’s posture and shakes his head. “Well, if that ain’t the biggest load of horseshit I’ve heard in all my days.” Hanzo rears back, mouth open to either question or argue, but Jesse plows ahead. “I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ through your dad’s head, but he’d have to be the world’s biggest idiot to even think those words. If I knew where he lived I’d march myself over there right now and give him a piece of my mind, and you best believe he’d choke on it. You don’t talk that way to nobody, especially family. I can’t believe someone’d be so callous to say somethin’ like that to their kid. And to say it to  _ you-- _ Christ.”

Maybe he is saying too much, but damn, this is just the sort of thing that pushes all of Jesse’s buttons. “Now you listen to me,” Jesse says, turning Hanzo toward him by the shoulder. “You are not a disappointment. You are not, nor have you ever been a disappointment. I don’t think you could be if you tried.”

“But--”

“I ain’t finished.” He squeezes Hanzo’s shoulder, slides his hand up to palm at nape of Hanzo’s neck. “You’re a goddamn executive of a company that makes millions of dollars. But even if you weren’t, even if you worked the mill like me every day of your life, it wouldn’t matter. You’re smart and you’re funny and talented, and you actually give a damn about other people. Got more compassion in your little finger than most have in their whole bodies. Don’t come tell me that someone like that is anything close to a disappointment.” He waits for Hanzo to look him in the eye, makes sure if he hears nothing else he hears this. “It’s an honor to have you as a friend. If your dad’s too ignorant to know what an amazing man he’s raised, then that’s his problem, not yours.”

The other man stares at him with an expression rent wide open. Somewhere in there more tears formed, but Hanzo seems unaware that they have spilled down his cheeks. He takes an unsteady breath. “How can you just--say these things?” Hanzo asks, a puffing laugh escaping before he drops his head down to rest on Jesse’s shoulder.

Jesse slides his arm more firmly around Hanzo and gives him a proper hug. “Someone ought to be sayin’ it,” he says. “May as well be me.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo replies with a low murmur. “That means a lot.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet. If’n I ever hear you talk that way about yourself again, I’m gonna tan your hide. You hear me?”

That draws a laugh from Hanzo and he sniffles before nodding. “I hear you.” He looks up at Jesse with a watery smile and something warm tightens in Jesse’s gut. The man does not have the right to look so pretty, late November sun shining on him through the windows next to the door.

Then he feels a gentle  _ tap-tap-tap _ against his back.

Jesse turns with Hanzo to find Soba standing on the step by their shoulders, Udon right behind him. Now that they have the human’s attention Soba meows and slinks between them to perch on Jesse’s lap. “Well hey there, buddy,” Jesse greets, scratching Soba under the chin. “Don’t you worry none. Your Papa’s gonna be just fine.”

“You are lucky he likes you so much, or I would not have answered the door,” Hanzo says, scooping Udon up to hold under his chin. His purrs kick into high gear and fill the quiet foyer with a rough rumble.

“Little guy’s hard to ignore. Ain’tcha, compadre?” Soba nibbles on Jesse’s thumb in response before hopping down to rub back and forth against his shins. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time, make sure your doorman comes to find you.”

A confused little frown crosses Hanzo’s features before he sits up, as if a thought just occurred to him. “Where are my manners, I don’t even know why you--you’re here. Why are you here? And you were carrying something--”

“Oh yeah! My Schlumbergera!” Jesse exclaims, hopping to his feet.

Hanzo wrinkles his nose. “Your what?” he asks. “And do not let Soba get out!”

“I won’t--come here, desperado.” Scooping Soba up under his belly is a lot like picking up a giant noodle; he hangs limp from Jesse’s arm and makes no move to escape when he opens the door. What he does do is crane his neck to try and sniff at the vibrant pink flowers when the plant comes in range of his little nose. Jesse makes sure to close the door tight before turning back to Hanzo. “This is why I’m here.”

He offers the potted plant out to Hanzo who takes it after setting Udon aside. A little bigger than a basketball, this particular cactus has been one of Jesse’s pet projects. He had never seen one like it, and from his research schlumbergera are not native to North America, so when he found a grower selling cuttings he jumped at the opportunity. Hanzo runs careful fingers over the segmented stems, the delicate wings that branch out from the core. He carefully avoids any sharp points and leans down to inhale the light fragrance from pink blooms. “What is it called?”

“Schlumbergera. Or, well, it’s got a lot of names, but they call it a Thanksgiving cactus. They’re from Brazil.” Jesse hefts Soba up in his arms for a better hold. “Thought today’d be appropriate.”

“It is beautiful,” Hanzo says, smiling at the compact plant. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Jesse replies, sincerely. “It’s the least I could do, for everything over the summer, and--yeah.” He clears his throat, feeling awkward, and focuses his attention on Soba. “Anyway, I wanted to stop by, knew you had places to be.”

Hanzo snorts, wrapping his arms around the pot on his knees. “I suppose Soba and Udon will be happy to have my company on Thanksgiving this year.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after our disagreement, dinner was canceled,” Hanzo explains, embarrassment creeping into his expression. “Just as well. From what I understand we were going to the country club, and Genji already made his excuses.”

Jesse blinks at him, incredulous. “You’re tellin’ me you’re goin’ to stay here?”

With a shrug, Hanzo sighs. “I am sure I can find something to throw together. It will not be the first time. It is not important.” There is a long moment of silence after that, and Hanzo must not be able to stand it because he glances up at Jesse only to find him staring. “What?”

Jesse shakes his head. “Nope. Not a chance.” He lets Soba hop down so he can grab Hanzo by the arm and without fanfare pulls him to his feet. “Get dressed.”

“What?”

“Go on, go get yourself all dolled up,” Jesse says, turning Hanzo around and pushing him up the staircase with a gentle shove. “Nothin’ too fancy; you only need a suit for weddings and funerals.”

Hanzo stumbles up a few steps before turning to look down on Jesse. He looks surprised to find himself standing there. “This is not necessary--”

“I ain’t leavin’ you here, and the longer you take to get ready the more of Ana’s wrath we’re goin’ to face, so chop chop!” Jesse claps and makes a shooing motion with his hands. “Come on, we got food to eat! I’ll check the cats’ food and water for you; where’s that at?”

“In the back of the pantry,” Hanzo says automatically. Jesse does not wait to see if Hanzo complies, just heads off to where he thinks the kitchen is. After a few seconds he hears the floor shift as Hanzo ascends the stairs to his bedroom to get ready. Good. If Hanzo thought for one second that Jesse was just going to leave him here to wallow in misery while he went and--

And it is only as Jesse is pouring kitty kibble into a cute, decorative food dish, Soba darting between his legs to get at the food as soon as it hits the bowl, that he realizes he just invited Hanzo to have Thanksgiving dinner with his whole family.

\---

Giving Hanzo such short notice is probably a good thing; it gives them both less time to work themselves up with nervousness. Not that there is anything to be nervous about, Jesse tells himself, but his stomach tightens with anxiety all the same. And even with just an hour’s notice Hanzo still manages to get himself in a tizzy.

“Are you sure this is enough?” Hanzo asks for the fifth time. He cleans up nice in a dark dress shirt and slacks, hair tamed and face showing no signs of his earlier distress. His hands clutch a bottle of wine wrapped in a decorative bag, some fancy labeled red that Jesse has never seen in the grocery store. Jesse has never been big on wine, but he would hazard a guess and say it is well out of his normal price range.

“You didn’t have to bring anything at all,” Jesse points out, also for the fifth time.

“It is customary to bring the host a gift, but this is a family gathering, and you have brought an actual dish! I should have made something…”

Jesse smiles, flicking on his turn signal. “All I did was throw some apples in the oven. It ain’t nothin’ fancy. And I promise your company is enough.”

All he gets is a grumble in return and Jesse turns his attention to navigating around the abundance of cars parked on either side of the road. Usually he does not have this much trouble but with the holiday everyone has guests over and there is nowhere else to park but on the curb.

The Amari house sits at the end of a dead-end road just a few blocks from Jesse’s. He pulls up and parks behind Gabe’s truck, a big black beast of a vehicle that Jesse both admires and hates. Admires because Jesse can appreciate a nice looking truck; hates because Jesse would get a hell of a lot more use out of the hauling power under the hood than Gabe uses it for. In front of that is Reinhardt’s little baby blue coupe. Noticeably absent is a certain Camaro from the driveway. “Looks like we’re not the last ones here,” Jesse says, shutting off the engine.

Jesse leads a reluctant Hanzo past a yard crammed with decorative windmills and wind spinners--really, Ana must have added five or six more since the last time he was here. Giant polished metal ones that look like insane concentric circles, tiny plastic ones that look like flowers, intricately carved wooden ones with ridiculous themes. They come in all sizes and every color of the rainbow, and quite a few that are actually rainbows because Ana is the best sort of ally and very supportive of her daughter’s lifestyle. Jesse is pretty sure her neighbors hate her, but he is not sure if it is for the cluttered yard or the progressive attitude. 

Voices can be heard through the metal door just off the carport. Jesse bangs on it twice before opening without waiting for an invitation. “Hey! Sounds like y’all’re havin’ a party in here!”

The smell of savory seasonings envelopes him as a small chorus of greetings gets thrown his way. For a minute there is nothing but hugs and hellos and kisses on cheeks. Ana, looking resplendent as always with a gorgeous sage green silk arranged around her hair, mothers him as soon as she finishes her strong hug. Then he gets passed off to Reinhardt and misses whatever she says to Gabe behind the other man’s massive bulk.

“And I see you brought a friend,” Ana says pointedly, stepping around them to greet Hanzo herself. “Jesse was always bad with introductions--”

“I was gettin’ to it!” Jesse exclaims from a Reinhardt bear-hug and is promptly ignored.

“Ana Amari,” greets, holding out a hand to Hanzo. “Welcome.”

Hanzo takes the offered hand, posture ramrod straight. “Hanzo Shimada. Thank you for having me. I am sorry it is on such short notice.”

“Nonsense! There is plenty for everyone. Any friend of Jesse’s is welcome here.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo says again. Jesse wonders if Hanzo might wear the words out by the end of the evening. He then offers the bottle of wine to Ana. “A gift for you. It is not much, but--”

Ana laughs, taking the bottle and inspecting it for just a moment. “It is perfect. I was out of red. Gabriel? He must have been thinking of you.”

“What’s that? Oh!” Gabe finally maneuvers his way into the small cramped space of the already-full kitchen, looking much less intimidating than usual in a cable knit sweater. He nods to Hanzo in greeting before his eyes catch sight of the bottle and he swoops in to take it from Ana. “ _ Oh là là _ , what do we have here? Hello, sweetheart, you’re coming with me.”

“It’s for all of us, Gabe, not just you,” Jesse points out.

Gabe gasps and tucks the bottle against his chest like one would protecting a newborn from harm. “You wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.” He nods at Hanzo again approvingly. “Good taste, Shimada. I’ll just let this air out a bit.”

“He’s a bit of a wine snob,” Jesse says to Hanzo in sotto voce from behind his hand. It earns him a murderous look from Gabe while he searches for a corkscrew.

“If by wine snob you mean will drink anything alcoholic as long as it has grapes in it,” Ana adds as she hip-checks Gabe to get to the right drawer.

“No respect,” Gabe complains. “No respect from any of you.”

Hanzo turns his attention to the other person in the room and has to tilt his head quite a ways to meet his eyes. “You must be Reinhardt.”

The statement is met with a boom of laughter that fills up what little empty space was left in the room. “That I am! Reinhardt Wilhelm, I work with Jesse here.”

“He speaks of you often,” Hanzo says. His hand looks positively miniscule when gripped by Reinhardt’s own giant paws. “Nothing but good things.”

Reinhardt chuckles and gives Hanzo a friendly but forceful pat on the back with his free hand, leaning in closer as if to tell a not-so-quiet secret. “We’ve heard quite a bit about you, as well, my friend.” And then he winks, and Jesse could fall over dead right then and there. He shoots Reinhardt a warning look over Hanzo’s head but the big man pays him little mind. “Come! Let me give you the penny-tour.”

“Yes, make yourself at home, dear,” Ana calls as Reinhardt leads a bewildered Hanzo out of the kitchen, Gabe on their heels. She has already swept back to the stove to stir something simmering in a pot on the backburner. To Jesse, she asks, “Does your food need to be thrown in the oven?”

“Naw, it should keep just fine,” he replies, coming to peek over her shoulder. He keeps his voice low so only she can hear. “Sorry I didn’t call ahead about Hanzo.”

“Don’t start with that, you know I don’t mind. You can make it up to me by setting another place at the table.” She hums, placing the lid back on and turning the heat up. “Most already have plans before Thanksgiving day. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just family drama. You know how it is.”

Another hum, this one less inquisitive and more sad. “That’s a shame.”

“He said he was fine but I couldn’t just leave him there like that, you know? Ain’t right.”

“Of course not. And we’re glad to have him.” She finally turns to look at him with her good eye. “Besides, it’s about time I got to meet the boyfriend.”

Jesse flushes pink. “We’re not datin’, Ana. He’s a friend, that’s it.”

“For now.” She reaches up and ruffles his beard, making him duck away as she laughs. “Mothers know these things. Now take your guest something to drink, we still have a bit to wait.”

“Yeah, speakin’ of, where’s Fareeha?” Jesse asks while retrieving two delicate cups from the set Ana has out by the crock pot. She has an untold number of fancy drinkware sets packed up in this house, something for every occasion. These are a smooth bone white with green ivy around the edging. “I thought I’d be the one makin’ y’all wait.”

Ana lets out a hard, tired sigh. “They had a call for a house fire off of Highway 3, down by Fairview. She was supposed to have the whole day off but you know how busy things get on Thanksgiving.”

“She ain’t on the ladder, though, right?”

“Not today; just as back-up.”

“That’s good. She won’t be too long, then,” Jesse says, trying to be reassuring. He knows the love-hate relationship Ana has with Fareeha’s career choice. Firefighting is dangerous work, not the life she would have chosen for her only daughter. But Fareeha always had her heart set on becoming one of three things: a firefighter, a police officer, or following in her mother’s footsteps in the military. Of the three, Jesse thinks she made the right decision.

Hopefully today’s call is a short one, because the longer Fareeha takes the more agitated Ana will become. “Did she give any other information?”

Ana shrugs and rips a sheet from a foil roll to cover one of the casseroles ready to bake. “A dinner gone wrong, I would imagine.”

Jesse snorts and ladles each cup full of spiced cider. “Betcha it was one of them fools thinkin’ they should deep-fry their turkey and didn’t thaw it properly.”

“So foolish,” she tuts. “Anyway, we’re going to wait on her, so make yourself at home. I’ve still got a few things to cook.”

“You need any help?”

She laughs and shoos him away. “I think I can handle things here. Just go make sure they aren’t harassing that poor boy, you know how Gabe can be.”

A fine point. Jesse grabs their drinks and heads out to the living room, hoping Hanzo is not feeling overwhelmed. But it quickly becomes clear that Jesse has nothing to worry about.

Having Hanzo there feels both surreal and completely natural, if such a thing is possible. Any awkwardness fades quickly with Reinhardt’s welcoming personality, and Hanzo can match Gabe’s unique brand of humor barb for barb once he realizes he can speak freely. Even when talk turns to people and events he knows nothing about Hanzo seems content to listen, comfortable letting the conversation flow around him like water. He fills the empty space next to Jesse on the too-narrow couch like he has always been there. With time Jesse finds his arm settled across the back of the couch to make room, and he has to catch himself when the urge to drop his arm down around Hanzo’s shoulders strikes.

Eventually Hanzo does stand and wander back to the kitchen; Jesse cannot blame him for that. Gabe is the only one among them that has any interest in the football games on the television; usually he and Fareeha spend the afternoon of Thanksgiving shouting at the screen and engaging in ever-more-ridiculous bets over who is going to win. Without Fareeha there to keep him occupied, Gabe keeps trying to talk football with the rest of them, and Jesse knows for a fact that Hanzo could not care less about that particular sport. Neither can Jesse, but he can fake it well enough.

Next thing he knows Hanzo and Ana are stepping out into the back garden and before he can question it Reinhardt and Gabe are rounding on him.

“You did not tell us you were bringing your boyfriend!” Reinhardt exclaims far too loud for Jesse’s peace of mind.

“He is not--!” Jesse abruptly realizes how high his own voice creeped and drops his volume to hiss, “He is not my boyfriend! And keep your voice down!”

Reinhardt looks skeptical. “You brought him to Thanksgiving, and he not boyfriend?”

“No! A friend,  _ just  _ a friend. Can’t someone just invite a friend along for the holidays without gettin’ the third degree around here?”

“Ah, but you not want him to be just friend,” Reinhardt points out. “And now you bring him to meet the family. Have you met his? Other than the cats, who love you already?”

Jesse winces a little, looking away. “Maybe the less said about his family today, the better.” And the less he thinks about it, the better. Every time he thinks of the elder Shimada his blood pressure rises. “It just ain’t like that, Rein.”

“Is he not interested?” Reinhardt’s face morphs into a frown on his behalf. “Anyone would be thrilled to date you!”

“I--I mean, I don’t know, it’s not like I can read his mind--”

“Why do you not just ask him out?”

Jesse opens his mouth but he stalls, unable to articulate his reasons succinctly. He could point out that they barely know each other, something that becomes less true with each passing day. He could point out that Hanzo is far out of his league, which he is sure would be met with indignant arguments that will not change how he feels. He could point out that Hanzo is having some sort of family crisis at the moment and he does not need something else to deal with, but he doubts Hanzo would appreciate him airing his dirty laundry to people he just met. The truth is, his feelings toward Hanzo are complicated things that he has been quietly and purposefully not thinking about, and he just is not ready to address them.

“Hey, lay off the kid,” Gabe says, speaking up to show some unexpected mercy on him.

Reinhardt makes a distressed noise and slumps back in his chair. “I just want Jesse to be happy! And I think Hanzo likes him back!”

“It’s Jesse’s love life and he can make his own decisions, however stupid they may be.” He takes a sip of wine from the glass he has been nursing all afternoon and hums, turning his eyes toward Jesse. “But if I was Jesse, I’d snatch this one up while I had the chance. He’s a keeper.”

Okay, so maybe not complete mercy. “Thanks, Gabe, appreciate it,” Jesse sighs.

Gabe smirks. “Now, if he was into guns as much as he is into archery, I’d have to make a move myself. I bet I could convert him. Do you think he’d be into--”

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” Jesse complains, rocking to his feet. He has to pace because even as a joke the thought makes his skin crawl. Gabe snickers and takes another drink. “Y’all made your point.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Rein, he’ll figure it out eventually. Hell, this is probably an improvement. Remember when he used to jump into every relationship head-first? Then it’d be over and done-with before he even got his feet wet.”

Jesse ignores the little goad in favor of peeking out the window. Ana and Hanzo are kneeling down in her ample garden, a bowl cradled in Hanzo’s hands while Ana works with scissors. They must have went out to collect some fresh herbs. But Jesse notices that they have paused in their work, Ana turned to address Hanzo directly. The serious look on Hanzo’s face is troubling; he looks nervous and intimidated but very, very focused on what Ana is saying. Jesse wishes he could read lips.

Then Hanzo breaks into a sudden laugh, and the tension is gone.

Jesse really, really wishes he could read lips.

He mosies his way to the kitchen and makes himself busy pouring another cup of cider when they return. Whatever has Hanzo and Ana laughing renews when they see Jesse there; he narrows his eyes at the two of them. He should have known Ana would gossip. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” Hanzo quips, joining him at the counter and not elaborating. The bowl he carries has a little bit of everything in it: a few leaves of basil, bundles of parsley and thyme, stalks of chive, sprigs of mint, rosemary, and sage. He sets the bowl by the sink and turns on the water to clean them.

“Ana puttin’ you to work?”

Hanzo smirks. “You could help.”

“Fair enough,” he replies, fetching a cutting board. “What’s all this for?”

When no one answers they both look around to find Ana stepped out of the room. “Ah, she said something about how you can never have too many herbs,” Hanzo says, turning back to his task. “She has a lot to choose from.”

“Yeah, she might be the only person I know with a greener thumb than the two of us,” Jesse jokes. “Always had a big garden but after she retired she went a little overboard.”

“She said as much,” Hanzo laughs.

Jesse glances at Hanzo, trying for nonchalant. “So, what’d you guys talk about out there?”

Hanzo’s smile grows to a grin and he looks up at Jesse. Picking up one of the sprigs of sage he wiggles it against Jesse’s nose. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Hey now!” Jesse scratches at his nose to chase away the tickle from the soft leaves. “Whatever she said, it’s a bunch of filthy lies. Ain’t a drop of truth in it.”

“Maybe we were not talking about you,” Hanzo says in a way that implies he was exactly who and what they were talking about. “Awful presumptuous of you.”

Jesse waves his knife in an empty threat. “Alright, I got my eye on you, Shimada. Here to weasel all my secrets out of my kin. Should’a known, should’a known.” Hanzo just laughs again and hands him freshly washed herbs to chop. “And see, I told you that the wine was a good idea.”

That gets a reaction from Hanzo, the other man reeling back like he thought of something monumental and he just has to tell somebody. “Did you know there is a box of wine in the fridge?”

“Yeah?” Jesse prompts.

“Jesse. A  _ box _ . Of  _ wine _ ,” he stresses. “As in whine that is not in a bottle like it should be, but in a cardboard box!”

“Must be Gabe’s. When Ana drinks she prefers the hard stuff.” Hanzo makes another distressed noise and a smirk steals across Jesse’s face. “This is a whole ‘nother side of you I never thought I’d see. Maybe you’re the one we should be callin’ a wine snob--hey! No more herbs to the face!”

They bicker and pick their way through the chore, lingering at the counter long after the herbs are chopped and the block cleaned. And if Ana deliberately avoids the kitchen for longer than necessary, neither notice.

\---

Only five minutes pass from the time Fareeha bangs through the kitchen door to excited and relieved hugs till the moment they are all sitting around the modest dining room table; that is the speed and efficiency with which Jesse’s little family addresses a good meal. He is sure that Hanzo is a little overwhelmed from the whirlwind, but what can he say? Heaven help the man that stands between them and a full and bountiful plate smothered in gravy.

The table is heaping with so much food there is hardly room for their plates, and still some dishes are left in the kitchen to save space. A small turkey and honey-baked ham sit carved on a decorative serving platter in the middle of the table. There is cornbread dressing with celery, squash casserole with pimento, green bean casserole topped with fried onions, rolls baked just this morning, sweet corn cut straight from the cob, Jesse’s baked savory apples cooked in balsamic and sage, no less than three types of potatoes--though Reinhardt insists that sweet potatoes are their own category and should not count. The gravy bowl gets passed around with alarming frequency. There are two different bowls of cranberry sauce, one homemade and one in gelatinous slices straight from a can. Hanzo had been mildly horrified as Jesse explained his mother only ever served canned cranberry sauce and that he just could not eat it any other way. There is both a pecan and a pumpkin pie waiting in the wings, the inevitable dessert that everyone will be too full to eat but determined to eat, just a little slice.

And Ana watches it all with the sort of quiet pride that can only come from turning out such a meal and watching your loved ones enjoy it.

Fareeha washed her face and changed into a fresh t-shirt but the scent of smoke still clings to her. Jesse can smell it as he passes her an extra napkin. “Ha! I called it, didn’t I, Ana?”

“Yes, you did,” Ana sighs, “just as I said that they were foolish.”

“And these idiots had the deep fryer set up in their kitchen!” Fareeha exclaims. “Right in the middle of the floor! Now, even if they did everything else right, they should’ve known better than to have that big pot of boiling oil inside. But they dropped that thing in there frozen solid!”

“Shit, did anyone get hurt?” Jesse asks.

Fareeha shakes her head. “Just a few splatter burns, nothing major. They were at least aware it was dangerous even if they didn’t understand why. Lucky they aren’t in the burn unit, honestly. And no kids; just a bunch of good ‘ol boys and their girlfriends making stupid decisions.”

“Good,” Ana grumbles. She stabs her fork a little to forcefully through her green beans. “If they are going to make stupid decisions at least they are only hurting themselves.”

“We did have a little crowd of neighborhood kids watching,” Fareeha says, touching her mother’s arm affectionately. “They thought it was ‘really cool!’ Might have recruited a few of them.”

Jesse chuckles; he can imagine it easily. Fareeha loves every aspect of being a firefighter, but she gets a particular joy out of working with kids. Particularly if she gets to also show them something impressive and explosive. “What about the house?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Well, the kitchen’s toast. Completely ruined. We managed to stop it from spreading to the bedrooms but there was some minor damage to the rest of the house. Good thing it wasn’t a two-story or I don’t think we’d be able to contain it. The inspector will have to see if the building is salvageable. I’m not sure how much structural damage there was.”

“All that from an improperly thawed turkey,” Hanzo comments. “I was not aware that this was such a big issue.”

“Happens every year,” Fareeha replies. “Never fails. Thanksgiving is one of your busiest days.”

“Well, we’re glad you only had to work half the day,” Gabe says, saluting her with a chunk of ham before shoving it in his mouth.

“Me too. And I would’ve argued more if I’d known we were having more company!” A sudden kick to Jesse’s shin from under the table has him hissing in pain. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone!”

“Damn, Fareeha, that hurt!” Jesse complains, leaning down to rub where he knows a bruise will be tomorrow.

She ghosts on past that, ignoring his grumbling in favor of addressing Hanzo. “Jesse told us about you! The one with the loud cat. Jesse showed us a picture; he looks like the sweetest little thing.”

“Soba, yes,” Hanzo says, latching onto a subject he can actually discuss with some knowledge. “Seems he is quite fond of Jesse; I suspect because he feeds him all the foods he is not allowed to have.”

“Fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Fareeha agrees sagely. “Bet you’re keeping him on a tight leash, now. Two escapes, right?”

“Unfortunately. At least he has not made any more attempts. I was terrified when he went missing that first time. He had never so much as set foot outside the door since I brought him home unless it was in a cat carrier.”

Fareeha coos at that. “Poor thing! Well, Jesse has never met an animal he step into traffic for, so he was in good hands.”

“He’s a good little kitty, he’s just got a wild streak in him,” Jesse says. “And a fondness for processed meats.”

Hanzo eyes him suspiciously. “And you were already trying to turn Udon against me, but he needs more than sausage and bacon to be convinced.”

Fareeha quirks an eyebrow. “Udon?”

“Soba’s brother. They are from the same litter.”

“You kept the two brothers together? That’s so sweet.” She looks between the two of them, smirk growing. “Meeting the whole family, huh?”

For a moment, Jesse is more focused on the subtle innuendo that Fareeha is throwing his way. But then there is half a beat where Hanzo does not answer, and Jesse’s mind does the quick mental gymnastics that leads from brother to family to Hanzo-really-does-not-need-to-talk-about-this. Time to change subjects, but before Jesse can swoop in to save the day Hanzo saves himself. “Thank you again for having me,” Hanzo interjects, a touch too forceful. “This is a lovely meal. My compliments to the chef.”

Reinhardt raps the table with his knuckles in agreement. “Yes, you have outdone yourself once again!” To Hanzo, he says, “We all count ourselves lucky that the lovely Ana invites us every year.”

Glancing to the side, Jesse can see the question forming in Hanzo’s eyes before he even realizes it, the way his gaze darts from Ana at one end of the table and Reinhardt at the other and back again. He looks to Jesse for an explanation but Jesse just shakes his head, the subtle message passed between them that he will explain later. Because Ana and Reinhardt are so blatantly in love and have been for years, but their relationship is as complicated to others as it is simple to them. She may have Reinhardt’s adoration until her dying day, but Ana Amari will hold onto her independence with both hands clenched tight. And any explanation regarding her reasons would not be welcome at this dinner table.

“Ana’s a gem. Cause God knows none of us can cook worth a damn,” Gabe says, waving his fork around at the lot of them.

“We’re not that bad!” Fareeha argues. “I’ll have you know I can cook a grilled cheese sandwich now.”

“And we’re all very proud of you, dear,” Ana says, patting her arm.

Gabe shakes his head. “No, no, Jesse is the only one that comes close, and he’s a far second. We’d all be eating microwave dinners today otherwise. Plus,” he says, nodding to the Jesse and Hanzo, “he brought the man with good tastes. I’m thinking, next year, two bottles.”

Ana levels him a look. “Or, he can just bring himself. He doesn’t have to bring anything at all, Gabriel.”

“Eh, two bottles. Three to be safe,” Gabe replies, winking at Hanzo with a grin.

Jesse lets out a rumbling laugh and sits back, his arm coming to rest on the back of Hanzo’s chair as the conversation goes on without them. “Guess you’ll be coming next year,” he offers, a question hanging unsaid.

Next to him, Hanzo picks up his glass and brings it to his lips, a pleased little smile on his face. “I suppose I am.”

\---

Jesse and Hanzo do not get back on the road until well after dark. The space between them is piled with tupperware full of leftovers. A recipe for cornbread dressing is taped to the top of Hanzo’s, the note written on decorative stationary in Ana’s delicate spidery cursive. She had pulled Hanzo into a fierce hug before they left with the firm promise that he stay in touch, that he let her know how many jars of jam he would want during her next canning session, and that he was welcome back anytime. There had been a quiet sort of joy in Hanzo’s smile that made Jesse ache.

Now, Hanzo sits curled against the passenger door, eyes drooping as he nods off. The emotional start to his day, a full belly, good company, and the gentle hum of the motor are all more than enough to lull him to sleep. Jesse struggles to keep his eyes from lingering on Hanzo’s dozing form, how soft and relaxed he looks in slumber each time they pass by the gold glow of a streetlight. His hand itches to reach over and take Hanzo’s hand, twine their fingers together, and anchor them together in the quiet.

Jesse keeps his hands on the wheel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the fire mentioned by Fareeha, my beta reader Aughtpunk (who does this for a living) left this note in my edits that I feel should be shared in its entirety:
> 
> "they're probably going to have to strip the walls back and put on new insulation and sheetrock and god the water damage from the hose they're going to have to kilz the entire house and that's only if the mold hasn't developed already remember once you can see it on the outer surface of the wall that means it's already covered the inside now let's talk about foundation cracks you see"
> 
> Love you Aught.


	6. Root Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! (This is either before or after the New Year depending on time zone, so take it early or late however you will)
> 
> Thank you all for jumping into this story with me. This started as a little self-indulgent thing to do just to shake things up between Popcorn Redemption chapters, but y'all know me. When have I ever done anything tiny? So sit back, strap in, and hold on, cause we're just getting started. *lowers sunglasses and peels out into the fic sunrise*
> 
> (And, if you're a fan of Cinemasins....roll credits!)

The insistent beeping of the alarm may as well be a firing squad, for as much as it startles Hanzo out of a wonderful dream. He manages to shut the clock off on his first try but the one swing of his arm out from the bed is just about all the energy he has to spare. His dry, parched throat aches with each breath. Swallowing only alerts him to the awful film coating his tongue, sake and whiskey and a few other drinks turned sour with sleep. There are also faint traces of garlic and onion every time he breathes out that makes him want to vomit. His skin prickles with sweat under the comforter and his restricting clothes--oh, good, still clothed. No bad decisions.

He raises his head to double check that assessment even as his brain protests the movement. The other side of his bed is blessedly empty; the blankets are not even untucked. A relieved noise escapes his throat and he thumps his head back down onto the bed again. The bed, not the pillow. He missed his pillow last night. That explains the crick in his neck.

A slight dip in weight moves up the mattress behind Hanzo before fuzzy legs pace into view. He squints up at Udon and watches as the cat makes another circuit around the bed before sitting straight and regal on the opposite pillow. The stare he sends Hanzo’s way is too judgemental for Hanzo’s liking, but he is not surprised; Udon is a cat, after all. “What?” Hanzo croaks. “It was a party. Do not look at me like that.”

Hanzo is actually not sure if two people getting drunk would even be considered a party, but since there were other people at the bar celebrating New Year’s Eve at the same time as them, he thinks it counts. No matter; Udon seems unconvinced, claws of his front feet unsheathing to dig rhythmically into the fabric of his pillow. Normally Udon would get scolded for picking at the bedding, but at this point Hanzo thinks he might roll over and die so he may as well let Udon have at it.

They did drink a lot last night. A  _ lot. _ More than Hanzo has drank in a long, long time. Jesse seemed adamant about finally having a night where Hanzo cut loose and enjoyed himself, to the point that he even scheduled a cab for them at the end of the night so neither would need to be a designated driver. Not even Hanzo’s insistence that he had work the next day made a difference. “We’ll just have to get the party started earlier,” Jesse had replied when they were making plans, smug grin audible even over the phone.

Things became a blur as the evening went on. Hanzo does remember the ball drop at midnight, remembers he and Jesse toasting with a shot of something warm and tasting of cinnamon. After that, his memory is spotty at best. He will have to thank Jesse for making sure he made it into his house last night and not pass out on the front lawn or something equally embarrassing.

Beyond Udon’s spot on the bed Hanzo can see the glowing white numbers of his digital clock glaring back at him, and he groans again before forcing himself upright. Work. He has work today. Slipping back to unconsciousness is not an option, not even the day after New Year’s.

His phone flashes with missed text messages but Hanzo waits until after he has relieved his bladder and is brushing his teeth to check them. He smiles around the toothbrush as he scrolls through his messages from last night. One of them was from Genji around midnight, but the rest are all from Jesse even though he and Hanzo were in the same room as him the entire evening. His brows wrinkle in confusion the later into the night he scrolls, though. At some point they must have switched to a subject Hanzo cannot recall, and without context most of the texts stop making sense. Something about annuals and perennials, a dozen or so names of what he thinks are tomato varieties, and a text about how Hanzo can finally get the piercing he always wanted. When did Hanzo even tell him about that? Half the words run into each other without spaces, and there is one text that is nothing but alternating flowers, trees, and dollar signs.

Hanzo spits into the sink and gives the phone one last confused look before sitting it down on the counter. Maybe a shower will make it all make sense.

 

\---

 

A text buzzes his phone while Hanzo is trying to merge onto the interstate, an ordeal harrowing enough to make him promptly forget about it the moment an eighteen-wheeler tries to change lanes about three inches from his bumper. Hanzo is old hat at the morning commute, and this is lighter traffic than he usually encounters on his way to work, but his persistent headache is making him less reactive than normal. He sticks to the outer lanes down I-77 to I-85 to Highway 29, taking an early exit just to get off the main roads as soon as possible. 

Shimada Motors headquarters is right in the heart of racing country, just near enough to the Speedway to be convenient while being just far enough away to not get bogged down in race traffic. Hanzo’s father Sojiro bought the swath of land years ago, before Hanzo was even born.  The turn down the long maple-lined drive is one Hanzo has made thousands of times now; he still remembers his mother bringing him and his new baby brother by to see where his father worked. He would sit on the floor of his father’s office coloring on printer paper or press his nose up to the glass windows on the upper floors, looking out over the treetops and seeing the city in the distance. Going to his father’s work was something special.

That feeling has long since faded. Hanzo sighs, staring up at the silver building gleaming in the January sun. For some reason the thought of going inside makes his stomach ache. Not for the first time he considers how long he could sit in his car, putting off the inevitable. 

The thought makes him remember the text he missed. He plucks the phone from the cup holder and hopes for something distracting.

_ Jesse McCree (9:25): Call me _

Not exactly helpful. Hanzo frowns at the two words, trying to think of what Jesse would need this morning. He should still be asleep, after the night they had. For the first time that Hanzo can remember Jesse is the one with time off from work. Did he leave something at the bar? For a brief moment worry flares in Hanzo’s gut; was he in an accident on the way home? He dismisses that thought immediately; Jesse is not one for cryptic messages.

Something itches at the back of Hanzo’s memory just out of reach, a nagging feeling he has forgotten something important. His thumb swipes over Jesse’s name and he almost hits the button to dial. But then his phone lights up in his hand with an incoming call. His assistant. Hanzo answers, and in the ensuing commotion the text slips from his mind.

 

\---

 

“As you can see, it was all just a misunderstanding. Yes...yes, of course. No, I would never dream of...yes, I can understand how that would…Yes.” Hanzo glances at the three people gathered just inside his office door, the intern with her big, scared eyes watching his every move and riveted to every word. “I will keep that in mind. Yes, thank you, Mr. Nott. I will pass on the message. Thank you. You have a good day.”

Hanzo places the phone back on the receiver with a careful click and turns from where he had been pacing behind his desk. “Everything is fine,” he says, stepping around to join them. “Crisis averted.”

The group of three let out a collective breath, all with their own flavor of relief. Ella, the unfortunate intern that started the whole mess, wrings her hands together with shoulders drawn tight. “I am so, so sorry, Mr. Shimada! It was an accident--”

James Cenker, senior manager and Ella’s supervisor, rounds on her as his worry flips over to irritation. “An accident? Those are the sort of accidents we can’t have around here. Do you know how much money is at stake with the Nott account? More than you would be able to make in a lifetime--”

“I think that is enough, James,” Hanzo cuts in, voice sharp. Cenker’s mouth clacks shut and a vein bulges angrily in his temple, but he manages to keep from arguing. Whatever. Cenker has a temper that grates on Hanzo’s nerves, and one day he is going to find a valid reason to let him go even if he has to find a better job for him somewhere else. More important is the young woman with tears gathered in her eyes who looks like her world is ending.

“I didn’t mean to hang up on him,” she says, voice hitching higher with each word as she struggles not to lose her tenuous hold on her composure.

Hanzo gives her a patient smile. “I know. These things happen to the best of us. Mr. Nott is just a man with high standards.”  _ And unreasonable expectations.  _ The fact that Nott demanded the girl be fired just for hitting the wrong button on a phone, Hanzo keeps to himself. “How about you take a short break. Get some water, and try to relax. Everything is fine.”

Ella nods, shell-shocked and still recovering from the fear of losing her job. Hanzo’s assistant Cassidy herds the two employees from the room, stopping with her hand on the handle. “You have a lunch meeting with the executives from Hybrid Enterprises and Meyers Auto Parts at twelve-thirty.”

“Thank you. And Cassidy, could you bring me an Aspirin?”

“Of course, Mr. Shimada.”

Hanzo thanks her again and retreats behind his desk. He rests his head against the cool wood surface, hooded eyes staring aimlessly around the room and avoiding the overhead light as much as possible. They settle on the plant in the far corner of the room. An Austral Gem bird’s nest fern, Hanzo picked it up as a congratulations gift to himself when he was promoted to his current position. He used to take care of it regularly, but he must admit that lately it has slipped his mind. Someone must still be watering it; Hanzo doubts Cassidy would give it much notice. Perhaps the cleaning crew felt sorry for it.

Going over to retrieve the pot from its lonely place in the corner, Hanzo feels a stab of guilt. The older leaves are yellowing, some of them flaking off to flutter to the carpet. Each section of growth crowds into the previous stem. He pushes the leaves up with his palm to look at the soil and finds roots breaking the surface, gnarled and curled in on themselves as they fight for space to grow. “You grew too big for your home,” Hanzo murmurs, setting the fern on the corner of his desk. He will need to remember to take it home for replanting.

Cassidy returns soon enough with the requested medicine and a bottle of water. The look she shoots him as she turns to leave is rife with judgement and more than a little disdain, and reminds him of Udon, though his cat pulled it off better. And the looks are unwarranted, in his opinion. It was not his decision to have everyone work the first of January. Plus there is plenty of work to be done. Maybe. Somewhere.

Head pounding, Hanzo goes about the most mundane tasks he can handle--checking emails and hoping nothing urgent pops up. Most of them end up deleted without being answered at all. The ones he does answer are monotonous, responses typed out to subordinates and team leads and managers and board members with detached professionalism. An hour of wasted time slips by and Hanzo can hardly remember anything he said to anyone. He swears he will never let Jesse talk him into drinking like that again.

Again it hits him that he has to call Jesse back. Grateful for the distraction, Hanzo takes the opportunity to think of something else, anything other than the day he has ahead of him.

He is not expecting Jesse to answer before the first ring even finishes.

_ “Hey, Hanzo?” _

“Yes?” Hanzo almost laughs, but the behavior is weird enough to be worrying. “I got your text. Is everything okay?”

_ “Everything is better than okay! I’ve been thinking about it all morning, and it’s brilliant, just fucking brilliant. The more I think about it the better it gets. And yeah, we’ll have to put in a lot of work, but when have we ever been afraid of a little hard work, right? So I started writing up some--” _

Hanzo has to interrupt before he gets even more lost than he already is. “Wait, wait, wait. What are you talking about?”

_ “What we talked about last night. Aw, shit. Don’t you remember?” _

“Of course I do,” Hanzo lies. “But maybe you could remind me.”

_ “Knew you couldn’t handle your liquor.” _

“I can handle it just fine! You were the one ordering all those weird drinks back-to-back!” Hanzo argues, feeling himself blush and glad he is alone in his office. “How are you even awake at this hour?”

_ “Never went to sleep. I’ve been too--”  _ He lets out a harsh burst of air, full of energy.  _ “Good thing one of us isn’t a lightweight, cause this is too good an idea to get lose just because you’re a lousy drunk.” _

 

\---

 

“So what, a greenhouse?” Hanzo asks, listing hard to the left. Bracing with his elbow makes it easier for the tavern and all the pretty colors to stop their slow spin.

“Naw! I mean, yeah, but not just that!” Jesse replies. He is having to talk louder than normal, their usual bar packed with regulars and newcomers alike on New Years Eve. The only way they managed to get their preferred booth is because they got there so early. More than a few people have sent them dirty looks for taking up a whole booth with just the two of them.

Jesse’s head tips back and his party hat snags on the back of the booth seat again, tilting it forward and making Hanzo giggle out a laugh. He yanks it off and continues as if it never happened. “A greenhouse would be just part of it.”

Waving a hand at the waitress and signalling for more shots, Hanzo distractedly asks, “What do you mean?” 

“There’d be the greenhouse for me, and a florist area for you,” Jesse says. He holds up his prosthetic hand between them, gesturing to a vision only he can see. “One part’d be where you can grow your flowers, and another part you could trim ‘em up all nice, arrange ‘em pretty like you do. Like, somethin’ clean and air-conditioned, keep things neat and tidy for clients.”

Hanzo watches Jesse’s hand, eyes going unfocused. “Proper equipment,” Hanzo suggests, the words formed deliberately to stop from slurring. “Not hoses with holes poked in them, but real proper greenhouse equipment.”

Jesse nods in encouragement. “Ever’thing would be divided up nice and neat. We could set up little arrangements near the front, make it invitin’ for customers. Can even have a store with all the necessities, you know, pottin’ soil and fertilizer and shovels and trowels, that sorta thing.” He snaps his fingers. “We could even help ‘em with picking out stuff for their lawns, too. Consultations, offer advice.”

“We could do events--we could do weddings!” Hanzo laughs, looking over at Jesse. “You have no idea how much we’d make on Valentine’s Day.”

“Hell, you’d have that and every other holiday. Bet you’d make a killin’ off of prom.”

“I could grow tropicals and not worry about a freeze,” Hanzo continues, warming to the subject. “Even with the garage retrofitted like it is, the winter is too harsh for what I want to grow. And there is no air-conditioning in there. Nothing I do can save the plants from sweltering in the summer. We could keep the plants the right temperature all year round. A proper greenhouse, a cool room for fresh cuttings, storage for centerpieces and bouquets…”

Jesse nods, picking up the narrative. “A big outdoor area. Rows and rows of landscaping plants. We could even get into trees and stuff. Fruit trees--and vegetables! Tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers, and not just your everyday varieties you can get down at Lowe’s or Home Depot; rarer stuff, too! Things you can’t get at just any greenhouse.” 

“We could find somewhere with enough space to grow whatever we want, as much as we want,” Hanzo says, voice going soft. Then he blinks and frowns at Jesse. “What are you doing?”

While Hanzo was thinking out loud, Jesse retrieved a pen from his pocket and started jotting things down on a bar napkin. “Makin’ notes,” he mumbles around the cap in his mouth. He grabs it and looks up at Hanzo. “We need a name.”

“A name,” Hanzo repeats, amused. “I thought you were going to name it McCree and Shimada’s or Shimada and McCree’s?”

Jesse grins and points at Hanzo with the pen. “You remembered!” He ignores Hanzo’s flush as the waitress swings by their table with the shots they ordered. Hanzo downs one while Jesse scribbles something on the napkin. “Our names are too easy. It’s gotta be something clever, something catchy. Something... _ us.” _

 

\---

 

Hanzo does not remember what names they eventually came up with, distracted as he was by the color in Jesse’s cheeks and his warm laugh at each suggestion. What he does remember is Jesse pressing another shot into his hand, their fingers brushing as Jesse steadied his hold. He remembers counting, and voices singing, though not his nor Jesse’s. He remembers the feeling of elation that coursed through his veins when their glasses clinked together in toast of their newfound venture. 

Or perhaps that was just the alcohol.

_ “--we would need to start looking at properties as soon as possible. It would have been better to get started just after last summer if we wanted to be ready for this coming year, but no use worrying about hindsight now. Of course we’ll need to go by the bank and see what sort of small business loan options they have--” _

Hanzo laughs. “Oh, so we’re going to banks now?” There is a pause then, stretching long and silent enough to make uneasiness flare in his gut. And then it clicks. “Wait, are you serious?”

_ “Yeah,” _ Jesse says, sharpness tinging the word.  _ “Were you not?” _

“Was I--no! No, of course not!” Hanzo sputters. “What are you talking about? That is crazy!”

_ “It’s not crazy! It’s a great idea! I mean, think about it. You’re great at coaxin’ those fancy flowers to bloom just about whenever you want them to. I’ve seen your arrangements; they’re better than damn near every professional in this area, and you’re doin’ it as a hobby. You’d have half their business stolen in a year, I guarantee it. And I know all there is to know about hardy outdoor plants and troubleshootin’ landscaping problems. We’d have the market covered. A one-stop shop for all your plant needs, from gardening to florist to landscaping to--to whatever! And, and, we both understand the business side of things. I’ve been runnin’ the landscapin’ business for years, I know how to balance the books. With my clients we’d have a good head-start and they could spread the word. What we don’t know we can figure out.” _

Hanzo’s mouth opens and closes, hangover-addled brain trying to catch up with Jesse’s rapid-fire speech. The best he can come up with is, “We can’t start a business!”

_ “Why not?” _

Jesse sounds like he is legitimately asking for reasons, and the fact that Hanzo is having to even explain this to him is pure insanity. “Well, for one, I have a job. You have two jobs. Last time I checked, something like this is a full-time business.”

_ “Yeah.” _

“You...you cannot be implying that this would be our job.”

_ “Our career,”  _ Jesse corrects.  _ “I’m not sure if you noticed, but workin’ at the mill ain’t exactly a dream job. This? This is what we’re meant to be doing.” _

“I have a career,” Hanzo stresses. “A  _ good  _ career. Shimada Motors is a family business, it has to stay in the family. I am going to run the company someday. This is--I have been groomed for this my whole life! What I do now is what I am meant to be doing!”

_ “Is it?” _

Hanzo reels back from the phone at the challenge, fingers gripping the case tight. “Excuse me?”

_ “Hanzo.”  _ There is a reluctant pitch to Jesse’s voice, then a deep breath. _ “Come on, man. We both know you’re miserable there.” _

“I am not--” Hanzo starts, stops, starts again. “I am not miserable. Miserable is such a strong word.”

_ “You shouldn’t be miserable or any other synonym for it,”  _ Jesse says.  _ “I know you got this whole family loyalty thing going on, and it’s commendable, but--damn, you’ve never once said you even liked working there. Have you ever even thought about what you want? Not what was expected of you?” _

“It is not that simple.”

_ “Only because you’re makin’ it complicated.” _

Heat and anger creep up to heat at his face. “I have a good job--a good career. It would be foolish to throw all that away on a stupid dream--” Hanzo grits his teeth, horrified to let that much slip out.

_ “It ain’t stupid. There’s nothin’ stupid about wantin’ somethin’ for yourself. Hanzo, I know it sounds out of nowhere but I wouldn’t be sayin’ all this if I didn’t think we had a shot.” _

“There is nothing stopping you from starting a business without me.” Even as Hanzo says it, he knows this is not true. Jesse would have a far harder time starting up a new business without Hanzo’s help; getting start-up capital, finding a bank to loan the money, affording insurance and equipment, all things Jesse would be hard-pressed to handle while still working at the mill. There would never be enough hours in the day for one man to do it all.

Jesse must know this, has to know this, but he does not say so.  _ “Yeah, maybe, but I just--I just know this is worth it. I feel it. This is our chance to make something of our own. We can do this.” _

Hanzo cannot listen to this a moment longer. “I-I have to go,” he blurts. “I’m sorry, I just--I have to go. Goodbye.”

He ends the call before Jesse has the chance to respond, then pushes the phone across his desk as far as he can. The call leaves him unsettled. What in the world has gotten into Jesse? How could he think such a thing was a good idea? Or even a reasonable idea? Or that Hanzo would even give the idea consideration--

His phone buzzes along the desktop with an incoming text, and Hanzo reluctantly picks it up.

_ Jesse McCree (11:42): Just think about it. _

Attached is an image of a cocktail napkin laid out on what Hanzo recognizes as the surface of Jesse’s dining table. Flowers and trees are doodled in black ink along the bottom with two stick figures on the right, one with an oversized cowboy hat and another shorter one with hair in a topknot, standing in front of a crude building. The left side of the note has a list of names: Shimada and McCree’s, McCree and Shimada’s, ShiCree Landscaping, McMada Farms, Bullseye Gardening, High Quality Greenhouses, Charlotte Farms, Right On Target Gardening, The Orchid, The Prickly Pear, Cattywampus Plants (with a cat face next to it.) All the names have lines scratched through them. All but one, untouched in the middle of the list, circled twice.

_ High Caliber Farms. _

Hanzo shakes his head and turns off the screen. “Ridiculous.”

 

\---

 

“Jesus, Barb, what the hell is that?”

Barbara looks down at her quinoa salad with microgreens then back to Victor with a glare. “Lunch. What about it?”

He snorts, shoving a slice of porterhouse into his mouth. “Looks like birdseed to me,” he says around half-chewed meat.

“It’s part of my New Year’s Resolution! Nothing but the best from now on. The body is a temple,  Vic. Just because you want to have a heart attack before you’re fifty--”

“Oh fuck off. Don’t tell me you’re back into that hippy-dippy vegan shit again.”

The lunch meeting grates on Hanzo’s nerves like sandpaper, and not just because the restaurant is noisy and doing a number on his headache. Barbara Sorge and Victor (just call me Vic!) Burleson make for atrocious eating companions on a good day. Both are executives at Hybrid Enterprises, one of Shimada Motors’ business partners in the industry. If Hanzo had his way he would only ever communicate with them by email, but Victor is the type of guy that thinks every work lunch has to be spent rubbing elbows and sharing industry gossip. Barbara is not much better, but at least she has something interesting to say half the time, even if it is usually something she read and believed from her Facebook page. Meanwhile Victor can waste an entire afternoon speculating about who might be taking a bribe or fucking their assistant.

Hanzo has heard the vegan-carnivore debate several times at this point, so he tunes them out in favor stealthily watching Jacob Meyers. A good ten years younger than the others at the table, Jacob is the heir of Meyers’ Auto Parts and the dozen or so subsidiary companies under the Meyers corporate umbrella. Usually his father is the one schmoozing with the other executives, but Vance Meyers must have finally decided that his son should step up and take on more responsibility. A pity, really. At least the elder Meyers is interesting to talk to and typically Hanzo can walk away from a meeting with him feeling like he made good use of his time. This Jacob is about as interesting as a sack of flour.

Not for the first time, Hanzo is reminded that he and Jacob have a lot in common as far as backgrounds go. They have even moved in the same circles, just never at the same time. Hanzo has seen him around the firing range, and their families have ran into each other at charity events or at the country club. He was no older than Jacob when he first started taking over major responsibilities for his father. Is that where the similarities end? Or are they even more alike than Hanzo can see?

An imaginary little voice of reason that sounds an awful lot like a certain cowboy cuts through his thoughts.  _ Whoa now, darlin’. You are way better than this useless dried-out twig. The boy doesn’t even know the name of his own product line. Give yourself a break, sug.  _

“Yeah, that’s all fad new-age nonsense, anyway,” Jacob pipes up, gnashing at his own steak. So far he has agreed with every word out of Victor’s mouth, a clear sign he has imprinted on Victor like a baby duckling. Like Hanzo needs more Victors in his life.

“Giving a shit about your health isn’t new-age,” Barbara argues. “All of you should worry more about your well-being.”

Victor swallows loudly and looks at Hanzo deadpan. “She banned apples in the office this week.”

She lets out an annoyed growl. “Mass-produced apples! Everyone knows the wax on those things is poisonous! Covered in pesticides! No, now they can only have organically-grown all-natural free-range Gala apples from this farm in...”

Hanzo does not bother to point out that apples cannot be ‘free-range’ or that most are cleaned several times before reaching even the big-box stores. Frankly Hanzo is just glad Barbara is not going on and on about her miracle-cure juice again, a conversation that took up the majority of their last lunch meeting. No, chances are Barbara only knows as much about fruit and their health properties as whatever the latest clickbait article told her. Jesse would be appalled to hear the way she throws around buzzwords while pushing her kale and spinach around her plate. And he would not hold back, explaining to her in detail just how wrong she is about where her food comes from and how it helps the body, even those waxy apples she hates. Hanzo can just imagine the sour look on her face as Jesse reaches over to steal the fresh strawberry that lays untouched next to her salad, popping it in his mouth and chewing at her with purpose.

“What were you saying earlier?” Hanzo asks, cutting off both Barbara and his own wandering thoughts. “You were telling us about your trip to Brooklyn.”

“Oh! Right, right, so, yes, we went up to the Brooklyn office and, well, let me tell you, we were not happy. I swear, it’s like those people have no self-respect, no dignity. Bunch of slobs in that office, all drab and dour. They’re getting paid; what is there to be so grumpy about? Anyway, their productivity levels are down over the past year. We don’t know why--”

“It’s not like the quota increase was that much. They should be able to handle it,” Victor chimes in.

Barbara nods. “Exactly! But they’re down, so after evaluations we decided to let go of the accounting division.” She leans in closer to Hanzo, the cloying smell of her perfume filling his nostrils. “To tell the truth, half of them weren’t even accountants, anyway. Just looks better on the employee registry that way.”

Before Hanzo can parse that and decide if it is in any way legal, Victor takes over the story. “We can just roll over the responsibilities to the general floor. But cutting out that dead weight? Turned the losses right around. Got myself a nice little bonus out of the deal.”

“Little? I wouldn’t call that boat of yours little,” Jacob says.

They all laugh along, though Hanzo’s is half-hearted at best and Barbara’s is full of teeth. He wonders if she got the same bonus Victor did. From the way she savagely stabs at her salad, he guesses not. “It is a charming little boat, Vic.”

“Yacht,” he counters. “So, Han-so, where’s that brother of yours? We haven’t seen him around lately.”

Hanzo has known Victor for a decade. He has never once pronounced Hanzo’s name correctly. Genji’s is butchered even worse, which is why Victor just sticks with calling him Hanzo’s brother. Imaginary-Jesse’s lip curls in disgust.  _ It’s pronounced Han-zo. I’ve got more twang in me than a steel guitar and I can get it right. Ain’t that hard.  _ Then he would level Victor with the kind of hard stare that makes lesser men quake in their Oxfords. “Working, I would imagine.”

Victor scoffs, dismissive. “Sure. If you say so.” He picks up his tumbler and swirls his Old Fashioned around so the ice clinks. “You know, maybe you should think about cutting some dead weight out yourself.”

A prickle of anxiety trips up Hanzo’s skin, something inside him sensing a threat and making him wary. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone knows you’re the one making things happen at Shimada Motors. You were the one that broke the Volskaya deal. And you swept in and snagged that sponsorship right out from under Chrysler's nose. After your old man turns things over to you, your brother’s going to get moved up to your position, right?”

“Yes…?” Hanzo confirms, feeling like he is walking into a trap.

Victor shakes his head. “You’re not going to want someone like that as your right-hand man, are you? After all, why split the pie in two when you can have it all to yourself?”

“I do not see how that is any of your business,” Hanzo snaps, eyes dropping to his plate as he works his own knife through his grilled chicken.

Victor’s easy poison-smile is back in an instant. “Hey, no offense meant,” he drawls. His words drip with lies, the accent all wrong. “We’re just looking out for you, buddy. We’re all friends here.”

Barbara laughs, bringing her glass of wine to her lips. When the waitress comes by Victor calls her a sweet thing before shortchanging her on the tip. Jacob watches and listens aptly, learning from these two how to become a vulture. In a room full of people, surrounded by his colleagues, loneliness creeps in. When Hanzo leaves, he feels a little more dirty than he did before.

 

\---

 

Engineering was always the aspect of this job he found the most interesting. Building an engine, streamlining it for peak performance, troubleshooting problems and finding solutions were all things he was proud of. He felt accomplished, working in Development. He always preferred to have something tangible at the end of the day, something that he could touch with his own two hands. Taking over as COO, he had to let that part of his job go and content himself with overseeing the fruits of the engineering department’s labor.

But now, sitting at the head of the conference table and listening to their head engineer detail the plans for their new alternator, he finds himself in a state of complete boredom. At no point in the history of man has a PowerPoint presentation ever held anyone’s attention. The struggle to get an embedded video to work was the highlight of the past hour. Hanzo has never been less interested. Without something to hold his attention, the ideas that have been toying at the edges of his consciousness creep forward.

Jesse’s words come back to him, a persistent reminder.  _ Just think about it. _

His mind wanders far from the hum of the projector, and the fluorescent lights, and the stale air freshener scent of the office. Far, far away from this building and all the people in it. Instead he imagines the air as earthy, everything bathed in sunlight. A little building--no, several buildings, all in a row. One at the front painted yellow, warm and welcoming, with double doors and a bell that rings every time they open. There would be aisles of supplies, bags of seed stacked high, decorative pots and flower boxes, birdhouses and concrete statues and garden gnomes. Outside the trees would be in black plastic pots, and bushes, and stone fountains. A koi pond would be on display, with orange and white fish lazily swimming among the lilies. Wind chimes would hang from the awnings, their melody drifting through the air.

He would walk through greenhouses filled with flats and trays of sprouts, tiny buds just waiting to bloom, all ready for planting. So many hanging baskets that Hanzo would have to duck to get past them, their vines brushing the hair of his ponytail. Passing under the cool mist of the sprinklers, he could feel the dew gather on his skin. All around, a sea of green in every shade imaginable.

And his own floral shop, right off the main store. Would he arrange his cuttings by type? Or by color? Every time he stepped into his workspace he would see a riot of color, and clean tools laid out for him to use, completed orders waiting for pick-up displayed beautifully for all to see. Bouquets and wreaths, potted arrangements for every occasion, centerpieces and roses for loved ones, he could do it all. All that creativity at his fingertips.

Jesse would stick his head in with a question, or a joke, or a funny story he just thought of. He would lean against the counter and tease Hanzo while he worked on an order, making him laugh. They would sit in their little office, go over the profit for the day with dirt still under their fingernails, not a suit or tie or dress shoe in sight, sweat on their brows and skin kissed by the sun. It would be hard work, back-breaking at times. He would be tired, and sore, and they would fight. They would argue about what to spend money on, their business hours, how many employees they could hire. What to have for lunch. If they should play country music in the store.

Somehow even the thought of bickering with Jesse sounds more tempting than anything he has heard in a long, long time.

“Mister Shimada?”

Hanzo blinks back to the here and now, looking around to find the others at the table looking at him with trepidation. From his side Cassidy clears her throat. “They asked if you would like to hear about their plans for Phase Two,” she says, giving him a pointed look.

“Ah. Yes, please, continue,” he replies, glad the dim lightning hides his flushed embarrassment. Hanzo feins interest until Cassidy turns her attention back to the presentation, then glances down at his handout. He never opened it from the first stapled page, and along the left margin are several doodled designs for store signs, all with the same name.  _ High Caliber Farms. _

He has to stop thinking about this.

 

\---

 

“What do you mean, Genji is not here? Where is he?”

“I’m sorry, sir. He never came into the office today, and he hasn’t been answering his phone. I can keep trying, but the representative from Formula One is here and they’ve been waiting for almost--”

“And you are just calling me now?! Send them to my office--no, I will be right down. Do not let them leave.”

“Yes sir. Should I keep trying to reach Mister Shimada?”

“No. I will have words with him.”

 

\---

 

It is a stupid idea, he tells himself walking to his car, briefcase under one arm, not even bothering to put on his jacket to fight the crisp winter air.

It is a stupid idea, he tells himself in bumper-to-bumper traffic, one hand on the steering wheel while the fingers of the other tap along the gear shift with nervous energy he cannot quite place. 

It is a stupid idea, he tells himself when he gets home an hour and a half later than he would like, irritable and counting the hours since his last dose of headache medicine.

Soba and Udon meet him at the door, their insistent meowing echoing around the foyer. “I hear you, I hear you,” Hanzo says, dropping his things off just inside the door and heading to the kitchen. Their food and water dishes are situated at the end of one of the counters. A quick glance proves they still have plenty of each. “You do not even need food, you just want attention,” Hanzo states, leaning down to pet them both. “No treats until bedtime.”

Udon stands up on his hind legs with his front paws on Hanzo’s knee, a clear indication he wants to be held. Hanzo scoops him up and carries him up the stairs. Behind him trots Soba, nails clicking against the wood floor as they go up the stairs to the master bedroom. Hanzo has to peel Udon off his shirt so he can set him down on the bed. “I know, I want to snuggle too, but I have to get ready for dinner.”

Dinner with his family on the first day of the new year has been a tradition the Shimada’s have kept for years. Somehow they manage to miss all the major holidays, but his father feels this day holds some sort of weight that the other more conventional celebrations do not. He sees it as a day for setting goals, a day to plan for the future. And, if past is precedent, a day to lay out expectations on his sons that he will ultimately be disappointed by. Conversation will inevitably revolve around work, all the ways Genji is not doing enough and Hanzo is doing things all wrong, while his mother lets the evening pass by with barely a word.

Changing out of his slacks, Hanzo finds himself opening his phone to read the text again.  _ Just think about it. _

Jesse might have grand ideas, but he was not wrong. He does know a lot about landscaping and plant care, and has the practical skills to follow through with his ideas. And Hanzo may be a hobbyist but he has never been one to allow gaps in his knowledge. They are both business-minded, hard working, and not afraid to get their hands dirty. Jesse is a natural salesman, charming and genuine in a way that Hanzo has always lacked. Hanzo knows his way around numbers, managing a business and maximizing profits. Their skills complement each other. They complement each other.

Would it be so impossible? 

Even considering it feels like blasphemy. The family business is everything. He is the eldest Shimada. Taking over Shimada Motors is his duty. No, his privilege. His father has been telling him so since before Hanzo can remember. His entire life he has been groomed to take over when his father retires. And with his age, recent talks of vacation homes and trips abroad, that day is coming sooner than later. There are no other options. Hanzo would be foolish to cast aside a future laid out on a silver platter, just for what? The whimsical idea of running a flower shop? 

It is a stupid idea, he tells himself again as he tosses his phone on the bed. The action startles Soba and he flees into the collection of plants by the bay windows, hiding behind the jasmine trellis. Hanzo turns away from the display and the big blue eyes watching him from between the blooms.

 

\---

 

“You are late,” his mother says by way of greeting, leaning in so he can give her a brief hug. “We have been waiting.”

Hanzo doubts that. Tsubame Shimada is looking resplendent as always, nary a gray hair out of place nor wrinkle in her dress. Judging by this particular outfit, Hanzo would hazard a guess that she just came from the country club. She leans towards clothing that is modestly powerful when she meets with her friends there. They call her Sue, because pronouncing Tsubame is beyond their grasp. Just one more reason why he hates them.

He trails behind his mother through the house, his dress shoes and her heels clipping on the tile floor. The scent of cooking food competes with vanilla and mulberry, almost too much input for his nose to handle. His father’s voice sounds out from down the hall, the door to his office doing little to muffle the phone call and his boisterous talk. As expected, a hired chef moves about the kitchen from counter to stove and back again as he puts the finishing touches on their meal. Hanzo nods at him in greeting and heads directly toward the sake set out on a traditional earthenware tray.

“You could wait on your father,” Tsubame says, already walking away, distracted by the place settings and making sure everything is just so. 

The wrought iron pot is already lighter than it should be, and one of the cups is slick with sake. “He could have waited on the rest of us,” Hanzo mumbles to himself, pouring a healthy amount and taking a drink. The alcohol burns pleasantly all the way to his gut, and he drinks another deep gulp before turning back to his mother. “Where is Genji?”

She shrugs, brushing past him to speak with the chef. Hanzo wanders over and takes a look at the spread prepared for dinner, and feels a pang of shame at the sight. He knows that the meal is  _ osechi-ryōri _ , traditional foods for the Japanese New Year, but he can only name half of them and remembers their significance even less. They did not grow up eating these things; neither his mother nor his father were ever the most inspired cooks, and most of their home-cooked meals were reserved for when they had guests. To be honest, Hanzo thinks he and Genji ate out at restaurants as children more than they did anywhere else. Hanzo does remember that the  _ nishiki tamago  _ represents wealth and good fortune, the yellow yolk symbolizing gold and the whites of the eggs for silver. His father always made sure to remind them of that and had egg roulade served every year.

Heavy footsteps precede his father, Sojiro, entering the room. “Ah, there you are,” he says, adjusting the tie around his neck. “Where have you been? We were supposed to go over those clauses for the Kapenski contract.”

Right. The Kapenski contract. “I meant to, but I had to meet with Carlyle from Formula One. Genji never showed up and left him waiting.”

“You handled it, yes?”

Hanzo tenses, fighting not to glare. “Of course. Though it is not my responsibility.”

“You should have reminded him.”

“His assistant reminded him, several times. But she cannot remind him if he does not even show up to work or answer his phone--”

“Maybe he needs a new assistant,” Sojiro suggests. “Have Cassidy start looking; he needs someone that can keep up with his schedule better.”

Hanzo opens his mouth to argue but the front door bangs open and Genji sweeps into the room. “Happy new year!” he exclaims, tossing his jacket on the back of the living room sofa. He has an obnoxious pair of aviator glasses with green lenses perched atop his head, hair artfully disheveled with expertly-applied styling gel. The aviators clash horribly with his navy suit and salmon shirt. Or maybe this is what passes for the latest style? With Genji it could go either way. “You did not start without me, did you?”

“Just in time,” Tsubame says. Genji bestows another hug on her, already engrossed in the food he can see being plated in the kitchen. “Let us sit. Miguel? The first course, if you please.”

The four of them take their places at the dining table, more than twice as long as necessary for a family of four. The bowls of  _ zōni  _ have barely settled in front of them before Hanzo’s earlier irritation gets the best of him. “You missed an entire work day.”

Rather than chastised, Genji just looks amused. “You really expected me to come into the office today?”

“Everyone else did,” Hanzo points out.

“Did they? Should have been sleeping off the hangover like the rest of us.”

Hanzo tries not to grit his teeth, but does not quite succeed. “Yes. They did. And you had a meeting with Formula One that I had to bail you out of--”

“Oh, shit, was that today?” Genji asks, preoccupied with testing the heat coming off his spoonful of broth. “Ah well, next time. Pass the pepper, will you?”

“Next time? We are lucky there will even be a next time, if they decide to go with a competitor--”

Sojiro scoffs. “They would not dare. Hanzo, you should just meet with them yourself. And we should talk about the Kapenski contract, because I think there could be changes in the...”

And that is the end of that, Hanzo thinks as the conversation moves on. Genji does not even show him enough respect to look him in the eye, more interested in snapping a photo of the bowl and its garnishes to post on his Instagram.

Annoyance and anger simmer just under the surface and he struggles to push it down. Another mistake on Genji’s part, another easy dismissal of the consequences. Just like every other time. Hanzo has never been one to complain about life not being fair; life is not fair, and that is just a fact. But nothing and no one makes him want to scream it to the heavens more than his little brother once again walking away unscathed while Hanzo takes on another burden. And this is not the last time it will happen. Far from it. Genji will never learn, and Hanzo will always be there to fix his mistakes, and his father will always find them both lacking in their own ways. This is just the way it is, and Hanzo needs to get used to it.

_ Have you ever even thought about what you want? _

It is a stupid idea.

_ There’s nothin’ stupid about wantin’ somethin’ for yourself. _

It is, Hanzo thinks. But he is not sure who he is trying to convince anymore.

“Hanzo, are you listening?”

Hanzo jerks his eyes up to meet his father’s. “Yes. Sorry, what was that?”

Sojiro looks exasperated at having to repeat himself. “I am going to need you to keep a close eye on Volskaya’s operations. There have been talks of workers’ strikes throughout Russia.”

“I have heard the same, but that should not be a problem with Volskaya,” Hanzo says. “They treat their employees well. We vetted them thoroughly before contracting with them.”

“You are going to make sure of it.”

A cold ball of dread settles in Hanzo’s chest. “What do you mean?”

“I want you on the ground, working with them directly. They will be a lot less likely to slip up if they know they are being monitored. We can use the opportunity to lay the groundwork for the new manufacturing facility.”

“A new--what new manufacturing facility?” Hanzo asks, bewildered. “This is the first time I have heard about this.”

Sojiro shrugs, topping off his sake. “I have been toying with the idea for a while now. Think of all the expenses we waste shipping all those raw materials here just to turn around and ship them back out around the world. A new plant in that region just makes sense.”

Hanzo stares at his father, horrible realization dawning. “That would take months. Years. You are asking me to move to Russia?”

“Someone has to go, Hanzo. Do you think I am going to send just anybody?” Sojiro asks, laughing. “This will be a major operation. You need to pick a team to go with you--a dozen at least. Not Cassidy, though, I am quite fond of her. She makes for a good PA, and I would hate to lose her. Might have to snap her up myself. You should start looking for a native Russian for her replacement, one that has connections--”

“I am not moving to Russia!” Hanzo exclaims.

Three sets of eyes turn his direction. “It is temporary,” Sojiro explains. Pragmatic as always. “Five years at the most. That is if we can find a suitable candidate to take over once operations are in place.”

Hanzo’s mouth opens but only syllables come out, not real words. He cannot believe what he is hearing. White-hot adrenaline rushes through his veins, strong enough to make his limbs shake and his voice tremble. “Five--are you crazy? I said I am not moving to Russia, and I meant it!”

Sojiro frowns from his place at the head of the table. “Hanzo--”

“This is my home!” Hanzo exclaims, volume increasing with his panic. “My home, do you not realize that?! I have lived here my whole life! Everything I know is here! Everyone! I have friends here--”

“Do not talk nonsense.” Sojiro puts his fork down and levels Hanzo with a hard look. “You can make friends anywhere. This is far more important than who you spend your free time with. I need someone I can trust to handle this. Who would you have me send? Genji?”

Genji opens his mouth as if to argue, offended by the implication, but he suddenly seems to realize this is one battle he does not want to be involved in. He casts his eyes down, making himself appear smaller, and focuses his attention on his meal. “I am  _ not  _ going to Russia,” he mutters.

Sojiro nods. “See? You are the obvious choice. This is an opportunity for you to better yourself. We have to think of what is best for Shimada Motors. ”

“I do not care what is best for Shimada Motors!” Hanzo screams, slamming a fist onto the table. The plates rattle at the shockwave along with his family, Tsubame putting a hand to her chest in shock. “What about what I want?!”

“Hanzo!” His name is sharp on Sojiro’s tongue. “That is enough. This is not up for debate. Stop being selfish.”

_ Have you ever even thought about what you want? _

He wants a garden full of flowers grown with his own two hands. He wants customers that think they are beautiful and want to buy them. He wants to work in the sun, and see the fruits of his labor, and be proud of what he has accomplished. He wants a friend that he can rely on no matter what, that thinks he is worth more than his name. He wants a friend that is willing to go all-in with him on a cockamamie idea that could fail for a hundred reasons, but will do it anyway because of that slim chance that it just might work. He wants the little yellow greenhouse lined with wind chimes and potted plants with a sign out front that says High Caliber Farms in big bold letters. He wants to have a choice.

Maybe, Hanzo thinks, it is time to start being selfish. 

The chair makes a loud screech as he pushes back from the table and stands. “You know what, father? Genji can go to Russia,” Hanzo says, heart pounding hard in his chest like a beating drum. In his pocket, his phone vibrates against his thigh with an incoming text. He already knows who it is from without looking, and the thought makes the hardest words he has ever uttered in his entire life just a little bit easier. “I quit.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns.
> 
> And hey. Thanks.


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